(AN: The summary is shoddy because I don't want to give everything away just yet! I'd like to have some element of surprise in this story. I'll flesh it out more the further I get into it.)
"Would you like us to accompany you?"
What kind of bloody question was that? To his ears, that sounded positively offensive. Him, needing protection – from what exactly? What should he, the proclaimed king of hell, need to fear while scouting in the middle of nowhere's nowhere? The most dangerous thing likely to occur there would be stubbing your toe on a tree's root and scuffing your recently "purchased" oxfords. Well, that would be a shame, now that he considered it. Even so, he couldn't chastise the boy for his alacrity; having his busy little minions sharpen their tongues day by day, some unerring loyalty was resolve-affirming, and further delayed him from playing fetch with his puppy, with their various limbs as sticks.
A gentlemanly "No" was the reply to the lad (a general summary) and off Crowley went to... wherever here is, not that it's of any importance. The why, rather, that's the juicy bit, and he was looking right at it, which is, truthfully, not as impressive as he pictured it in his head. Like most headaches in life, he blamed the media for his unrealistic expectations – big budgets, non-reality based, time constraints skewing the real world results. Where's the drama? No dark swirling vortex with an electrical charge crackling inside? Hell, no sound at all? And better still, where is the film's hero? More like three festering boils on his backside. Not a moose, squirrel or blackbird in sight meaning he is, more or less, a step ahead of the dynamic trio, always on the lookout to reprimand him in their loudest big boy voices to quit being so naughty, and show off their newest antique toy truly believing in their hearts he gave a sweet damn. That would be cute if they weren't working for the wrong side.
What a world it would be: the tall one being the monster he was so literally born to be, the eldest one returning to the role that suits him far better than the savior; and the idiosyncratic feathered one, melting away his useless wings and be Crowley's partner once again. Their first date ended in failure, but deep in that human heart of his lies the ruthlessness that would have most demons wetting their panties. The angel, he's part of the package now, isn't he? Buy one Dean, get one Castiel free? That thought was always good for a chuckle on those dreary, rainy days. What do you give to a person with an already poisonous relationship to his family? Why, what else but another deadly relationship written in blood! Idiotic human, how are they able to tie their shoes let alone live as long as they do? And why do these men insist with their very own lives to continue protecting them?
No, no, something like that could never happen again, right? The righteous ones, now pious in their purpose, would never falter again; those dark days have long since passed. But just who exactly set such a thought into stone? Because they said so? Oh, love, the world doesn't work that way. A forceful nudge here, a shove off the cliff there and Dean's back to counting off severed fingers to help him fall asleep. Such fancies take time, time Crowley had, but why sit around waiting on someone else when you could be sitting on the shores of the Maldives with a margarita in hand being waited on? The cat eventually tires of the mouse and calls it a day.
The fun need not end their, either. Really, why limit yourself to a gaggle of idiots? Crowley thought of himself as far more creative than that, his ambition a little more grander and so on, you get the picture. The world in which he lived could be his for the taking – if he knows where to look. Who knows, there may be other native lands out there to be liberated by his empyrean conquest. To have his name cross the lips of angels, demons and humans from any time that has existed or will? It could sure make a fellow all tingly.
Two very confused and enigmatic things parading in borrowed flesh made a bit of a mess here on Earth and, to be quite frank, left everyone else just as confused in their wake: the meek became boisterous, the violent insignificant; the loyal evaporating into treasonous little ants. The volumes of blood that had to be scrubbed from floors and clothing? An absolute nightmare. But those are the rules you agree to abide by when one becomes a henchmen: you step out of line and the boss is contractually obligated to step on your skull. Dirty and arduous labor that, but someone has to do it. The sun seemed to be coming up on those dark and red days, the ants returning to their regular temperaments and stations again, protecting their qu– king. King.
So the things left and the cup of normalcy was 98% full, although not all was well in the state of Denmark, and he was looking at it. Bland, unfit for film. Not even worth taking a photo of.
Well then, first on his mental checklist was if death or bodily harm would befall him or anyone else–but mostly him–if they came into contact with the disappointing temporal distortion. A twig or stick... a deer... He was certainly kicking himself for coming alone. A simple shove of one of their arms into the possible meat grinder and he'd know for sure. This, of course, was only the first item on the list; if decapitation was avoided, part two would be returning safely back to the origin point, meaning next to him with details of his or her glorious journey to... where doesn't exactly matter right now, but coming back to him does.
Sacrifice one half of his cell phone? No, too many contacts would be lost, as well as some very, very personal photos.
"Very well then, looks like someone will end up with the short straw." Nothing like a lottery to decide who looses a leg.
Hmm... This is odd. The sensation of being observed engulfed him like smoke, and the smell that came with it reminded him of it too. More than that, it was familiar, one he could not forget despite numerous shooting star wishes. An odor he wish would have stayed where it belonged. Flowers being set ablaze. Ash. Black as tar and just as thick. And with a blink, no trace was left in the air. Unfortunately, the eyes remained.
"And what do I owe this most auspicious encounter?" Crowley failed purposely at containing a sigh and turned to greet his guests.
A deep voice returned the sentiment. "Nothing is destroyed going in. What happens on the other side still remains unclear."
"Never thought I would see the day when your kind would divulge any information with the likes of me. Must be my birthday." He took a moment to take in the man in front of him, and his vessel's choice in apparel. "Mowing the family lawn, were we?"
Caim smirked like he expected Crowley to say something something along those lines, dark eyes twinkling. "Regarding one's outer appearance as critical... That's one of the countless differences between us. It bleeds of humanity, even if you are demon. And the ruler of all demons at that." His tone turned derisive; a choked laugh came from behind him. "When was that agreed upon by the entirety of Hell, exactly?"
"When your bestie failed to live up to his word," Crowley replied quickly, almost sounding bored. Which he was. Best to get on with it instead of playing whatever game Caim was tossing about in his head. "Since you seem to be in an uncharacteristically generous mood, may I ask why you are here and why that rabid mongrel is at your heels?"
The restless boy behind Caim did the only thing he could do in rebuttal, which was to search his vessel's pocket for its wallet and throw it at Crowley. The brown leather bounced limply off his chest and onto the soft soil. He chortled again, unable to decide how loud it should be; the other two demons, for the first time in history, both agreed to ignore what had just taken place.
"The abridged answer to your questions is that we wanted both parties to acknowledge the others' curiosity in what's before us, that we assuredly have dramatically separate goals in mind. As for this one," he briefly turned his head to the pacing demon behind him, "we're attempting to retrieve a toy he lost the last time we were on the surface. The location which he conveniently forgot." The scathing remark was in turn ignored by its intended target.
"What do you expect to happen when you give an important piece of equipment to an infant? Lost under the couch, down the toilet... Jesus will be resurrected before you find that again."
The odor of ash and burning flora blew past him in a thick gust, heavy and moist, as the small snarling demon began to show part of his true self. His shadow began to grow along the ground, abnormally black – too black, losing bit by bit its human shape, and charged at Crowley. Caim's raised hand was all that was needed to stop him, the freight train crashing into an object that could not be moved by any force. He pushed at it once with his shoulder before giving up, still snarling, eyes remaining as black as his shadow. At least the idiot is smart enough to know when he's lost.
"This is your warning, usurper." If the fellow wasn't such a prick, that commanding voice would certainly catch his attention, maybe heed a word or two; but because he was –and always has been– rude, the old demon was nothing more than a nuisance. "Continue on this path and I promise you we will eradicate those ignorant enough to follow you, and... well. I don't want to ruin the surprise just yet." The stupid one tittered behind him.
"Now, now, don't lead me to believe I have a voice in this matter. I curtsy to you or I don't, but either way I'll have a rat-sized cage with my name on a plaque right above it." Sliding his hands into his coat, Crowley stepped closer to the two, feeling as though he had nothing to lose. "So, how about I tell you to piss off, take my chances, and do what I've wanted to do to your kind for centuries?"
"Your risk is too big."
"The loftier the gamble, the richer the reward. That reward, well, she's just too big to pass up. And when did you begin to care for my well-being? Getting sweet on ol' Mr. Crowley?" He couldn't help himself but to smirk at the artificial candy coating of his own voice. When did any of them show the remotest amount of interest in underlings like he once was? That sort of consideration wasn't in a demon's repertoire of disposable emotes. So to temporarily placate their significant duchies in Hell must be signal to a bad moon about to make itself known, which might be entertaining enough to stick around for.
Caim, meanwhile, implacable still after centuries of reluctantly being his acquaintance, remained unperturbed in front of him, heart-breakingly unconcerned with having Crowley's love. Oh well, bullocks to him; guy doesn't know what he's missing out on. The slow one was... well, casually making his way behind Crowley, still maintaining a cautious distance from him, to more than likely inspect the distortion for himself.
"You can say we've been buddies for a long time, yeah? We bump into each other on our way to homeroom, you say 'Hey,' I say 'Hey,' and that's that. Compared to the others, you stuck out like a stubborn infection, all red and throbbing, and not that pleasant kind of red and throbbing either." An elephant-like inhale interrupted him, derailing his train of though. Suppression. Non-violence. Don't kill him yet; it's not worth it. Crowley closed his eyes and held his breath. At five seconds it was clear to talk once more. "This whole stoic, chivalrous part you play reminds me so much of our feathered friends to the north. Don't you find that amusing, because to me that's a joke that keeps me in stitches for years."
Finally, a flinch. A twitch of the eye, shoulder raised doing a little suppression of his own. Yes, of course an angel barb would be one if not the only thing a rise out of this lump of a creature. Both a blessing and a curse to demons and angels alike is their eternal memory – that is, to say, most demons and angels. The sniffly bugger behind him was... something else. Some blemishes, no matter how much you attempt to beautify them with loyalty and good deeds, can never be scrubbed away.
"Grade school taunts. Yes. I could mention just how human that is to bring up, but since you aren't human anymore, what's the point exactly? Could your cocky attitude be, perhaps, a remnant of your past?"
An assured tug at the corner of his lips and a point well taken, one Crowley embarrassingly walked into. How could you bring up undignified checkered pasts and ignore that his was just as demeaning? His climb to the top was hampered by the representative weights of an undignified crossroads wish leading to the just as undignified position of crossroads demon. A true blue pauper to prince; a story he should sell the rights to. The Academy just loves "based on a true story" dramas; this one assuredly more engaging than young, depressed American football players. A point to the visiting team.
"Your confidence will kill you, Crowley. We gave you a chance to stand aside as we begin to engage in–"
"Chance?" the demon snorted indignantly. "What bloody chance? You and your clan made your decision about what to do with me long before any of you stepped back on solid ground. I find it insulting you think of this as giving me an opportunity to scurry away with my tail tucked between my legs, not even a slap on the wrist for my traitorous ways. Oh, my fate's been sealed and delivered, love."
So, where does this leave Crowley? Kill him now or kill him later? While it would make whatever plans they have easier if they removed the roadblock ahead of them, he knew their style. The more substantial problems were solved in groups, not necessarily because they needed the extra manpower but that they liked witnesses. Family bonds, something or other, blah blah. Not only that, but people from his camp to also observe as proof and example, like how the severed heads of dukes and kings were impaled on spikes and placed in the town square or adorning their own castle in the delightfully turbulent days of medieval Europe. No, his death would be seen by angels and demons as a new regime ascended. Nothing to fear yet, yeah? Not to say he was, because if he was ever forced into battle (and wouldn't you know it, he is) with his wish list of enemies and people who generally were as welcomed as stepping on dog feces, Crowley is glad it would be these shining examples of favoritism.
The demon in his backyard best raised his hand defensively. "We just wanted to know where you stand, Crowley."
"Like I have much of a choice," he muttered as he looked over his shoulder. The kid was shoulder-deep into the distortion, wiggling his arm about and looking ludicrously determined as if he was going to find something. Who knows? He just might. Or he could lose something. Both outcomes were most welcomed. "Go a little deeper and you'll find the prostate in no time." His reply was only an acknowledging grunt.
"Time to go, Bel," Caim's voice beckoned him, not like you would with a pet much to Crowley's surprise. A calm insistence. "We have more important matters." With a final blind grope raised on his toes, he casually relented, walking past Crowley... before disappearing and doubling back to kick him in the shins. As the assaulted demon cursed and clawed out for the little shit, wanted to pop his head with only his hands, he appeared in his spot behind Caim once again While his keeper did not appear to be pleased, he didn't look all that offended either.
"Keep that bastard on a leash, would you!" Oh hell, how degrading... Alright, that one dies first, top of the damn list.
"There's only one thing in this world that controls any of us. I'm sure you remember that." A clandestine nod of his head and Caim was off to continue his search for who-the-hell-knows-and-who-the-hell-cares with his rabid cerberus. He was kicked. He was kicked. Like a child in the schoolyard. Wasn't he supposed to do the kicking?
At least he was alone now to irritably fume in comfort. Which he did, muttering once or twice under his breath and smoothing out his suit, not that it wasn't wrinkled in any way. More tainted than wrinkled, really.
"I do scrutinize my looks a bit obsessively..."
This distractions had left – temporarily. While they did not offer anything resembling peace between their two parties, Crowley knew for certain that he had opposition at all. Better still was knowing the enemy personally. But should it be such a revelation that those ones would be the rival team? Not at all. Crowley's action were heretical; judgment was only a day away when he claimed the crown from the imprisoned Lucifer.
Or at least it should have been. Why such a long delay? Granted time moved sluggishly in the furnace, but the reaction to Satan being locked away in Alcatraz should have been instantaneous. It had been years. Why all the interest in him now? No, there was more to them showing up than just him being eliminated from the scene. Whatever the "plan" was, he was only a part of it, one step to achieving what they truly desired.
But Crowley had plans of his own, damn good ones too. That would not change – just altered. His were too tasty to abandon because a few upperclassmen ganged up on him on the playground. Unforeseen variables had entered the picture, and since restarting was not an option, a little ingenuity and tweaking would be needed to accommodate such unwanted outside forces. Well, they would have been a problem eventually, if not now than sometime later. And that's just dandy with him. What do you do with pesky vermin? Suffocate them until their black eyes pop out of their skulls. No matter how big their talk may be (and it will be), they are demons and easily disposed of. The world would be better for it.
Now, about this damn vortexy thing. Which fortunate soul would be first to hop down the rabbit hole?
