The thing you need most
Chapter 1: I take you to have and hold
Bobby heard a thump against his front door.
Saying something felt wrong about the whole situation was an understatement.
He had found himself all of a sudden in his kitchen in Sioux Falls and was still trying to figure out what he was doing there.
The last thing he remembered was entering Dick Roman's office in hopes to find useful info on the Leviathans. After that, there was nothing.
It meant he was standing in a house that hadn't existed for weeks and had no memory of anything between the mission with Sam and Dean and the present moment.
To add to the list of things that didn't make sense, Bobby had seen his reflection on a window and noticed he seemed a couple of years younger than he should be.
The noise at the front door made his instincts scream that someone had just dumped a corpse on his front step. That way, besides having seemingly random facts to work on, he would be knee deep in some serious crap, and that would complete the checklist for a reasonably typical Bobby Singer's day.
'No rest for the wicked', the hunter murmured resignedly and adjusted his cap, starting for the door, 'At least I'll have some clue on what's going on'.
Bobby approached the door silently and looked through the peephole.
Nothing in sight but the yard.
It was expected. In his experience, weird things didn't show, even less explain themselves, at the first try.
He pondered on the possibilities.
He could look for another point of observation. Maybe the window in his bedroom, on the second floor would be safe to survey the area before he put his face out.
However, someone could be seriously hurt just some steps away.
Bobby knew he would not stall things, even if it could be a trap. If someone was waiting for help, it wouldn't be right move around the house to find a better angle. He was able to defend himself and, if needed, intimidate anything that was out there while rescuing someone.
You don't survive the life of a hunter if you can count on a gun behind the door, training and reflexes, and that was what he had by his side, now.
He picked the shotgun, put his hand on the handle and calculate quickly the possibilities ahead.
If there was a body, it was on the ground, close to the door, and that was why there was nothing to see through the peephole. Someone might have dumped it and ran away; in that case, the body was one more problem left on Bobby's lap, besides all the incongruent data he had been already storing since he 'appeared' in his kitchen.
However, the noise could be something being thrown heavy against the door – a corpse or whatever – and he could be facing a not totally brainless creature who would be hiding, waiting to attack. In that case, things could prove challenging.
Bobby adjusted his body and opened the door ajar in a swift movement.
The mystery was promptly solved.
He had not been able to see anything through the peephole because the source of the sound he heard was a familiar clad-in-black man who was currently supporting himself on the wall beside the door.
Bobby stepped outside, looked for any disturbances in the perimeter as quick as possible and, not detecting any menace, threw the gun back in the house and hurried to access the state of the demon.
There was something obviously wrong with the King of Hell.
There were no external signs of beating – no wounds nor blood – and no ragged clothes, but his eyes were closed and his head was hanging. His back against the wall suggested he could not stand by himself.
Bobby noticed the hands clenching on the man's sides. It seemed an attempt to control something that must be painful and/or disturbing.
The hunter's brows shot up: something had to be high in satanic levels of gut-wrenching to obliterate the usually annoying self-assured creature in front of him.
Bobby reached out to touch the demon's shoulders. He wanted them eye to eye to find out if they were able to communicate in some way.
The moment his hands touched the expensive coat, the hunter received an unexpected armful of disoriented demon king.
'Balls!', Bobby cursed, then groaned under the other's weight, 'What the Hell happened to you, Crowley?'
There was no answer – what was worrying in itself, given such an easy opening for a pun –, just some trembling quite similar to something from a high fever, and Bobby decided the best to do was to carry the demon inside.
He arranged to have one of Crowley's arms over his shoulders and involved his waist, kind of dragging him towards the old sofa in the living room.
It didn't help that Crowley started babbling in some ancient-sounding language.
Moving the quivering and seemingly delirious dead weight was not an easy task, and now Bobby half expected to be cursed – especially when the demon's tone of voice raised to a frantic string of broken sounds when the human left him sitting on the sofa to run back to the door and lock it.
Bobby came back and watched Crowley, assessing the situation.
The vessel was the same, but the Crowley he had known – clear shaven, lean, uber confident for reaching the position of King of the Damned – had changed to a bearded man, with more mature traces and currently under some powerful stress.
So, Bobby himself seemed a bit younger, while Crowley seemed a bit older than he remembered.
Something very out of ordinary was happening.
The demon kept speaking in tongues, his eyes tightly shut, fists clenched on his lap.
He trembled and his arms raised a bit, just to fall back, as if he didn't know how to fight whatever agony he was in.
Bobby was not able to say if the suffering was just inside the demon's mind or if he there was physical pain, and he needed to investigate in order to help. So, he sat at Crowley's side and rested a hand on his chest, maneuvering him to support his back on the sofa.
The touch startled the demon.
For a moment, Bobby thought he would have to defend himself from a punch; however, the now unclenched hands were moving blindly as if to grab whoever was touching him.
Bobby realized it was not a gesture of attack, and not even on of self-defense. It was more like Crowley reaching out for any contact he could have.
The hunter quickly decided to seize the opportunity and put one of his hands at reach for Crowley to take.
'That's all right, man', Bobby grunted when both hands held his with demon strength, 'Just don't break it'.
Once Crowley seemed distracted by the contact, Bobby loosened his tie with his free hand and put his fingertips on the base of the demon's neck. He found pulse, what confirmed he was dealing with a creature with powers to keep his vessel reasonably stable while gravely sick.
Crowley whimpered at the contact of fingertips on his skin, and then whimpered again when the contact ceased before he could grab it too. Bobby didn't know if those were signs of stress or relief, and let go completely.
The delirious babbling, that had lessened in agitation while they touched, was back to highly distressed.
The problem was not just that it was getting on his nerves. What worried Bobby was that maybe some kind of message was being delivered – something he should be able to decipher, given the number of languages both knew.
Not being able to make out any words was the truly nerve-racking thing.
Bobby's shoulders slumped. What if Crowley had managed to come on his own volition when he found himself injured? What if he trusted Bobby to know what to do to help?
The prospect of failing anyone who trusted him was horrifying to Bobby.
And he didn't want to fail the creature who had given back his legs and been an useful and loyal ally to him and the boys. He had history with the man currently under his care, and now he was his responsibility.
The shuddering persisted.
The babbling was interrupted because the demon gritted his teeth, what was even more distressing.
An anguished noise escaped Crowley's throat, and he leaned forward, arms crossed over his chest.
Was he cold?
Was he scared?
Was he locked in some mind place where he was being tortured?
That agony needed to be stopped somehow.
The feeling of uselessness was making Bobby desperate, and he knew very well that desperation just makes things worse.
There was always a way out of any situation, no matter how endgame it seemed.
Robert Singer had solved more challenges in his life than anyone else, and he would not be defeated just when he was needed by someone who, under normal circumstances, would mock the idea of being helped by a human.
Feeling back in the game, Bobby went into action inspecting the black coat pockets. He was looking for hex-bags or cursed objects.
He rested on of his palms on the demon's chest again, risking a gesture to calm Crowley down a bit while being ransacked.
The indirect contact seemed to give some comfort, and the demon got a bit more cooperative.
'Why am I not surprised?', Bobby made a face at the fact that Crowley, who was always throwing sexual innuendo around, apparently didn't mind being touched – he even leaned a bit into the hunter's direction, 'Not sure it's a good thing you're keeping your hands to yourself, though'.
Bobby found the inner pocket where the demon probably kept a flask and, to his surprise, felt a piece of paper neatly folded.
He extracted the paper eagerly.
The moment he did it, Crowley started babbling incoherently again.
Bobby unfolded the piece of paper, hope warming his chest.
The page had a two-lines Latin text beautifully written in cursive:
Liquorem sacrae quinque
Una mecum estis
Bobby frowned, murmuring the translation, 'With the five sacred liquids / You are one with me'.
He concentrated, looking for some meaning in those words.
The first thing his brain provided was that, when a sacred liquid was mentioned, it usually meant holy water. However, he doubted a demon could be treated to anything with it, and there was no way Bobby was trying the equivalent to acid on a sick Crowley.
He scoured his brain for something else.
Something he must be missing…
Well, there was another liquid that ranked high on magical recipes, and that could be tested on a demon without much fear of going wrong.
Blood.
Making his decision, Bobby got up and ran to fetch a syringe.
Crowley got badly agitated again, his arms now moving around.
He really seemed someone desperate for anything to cling on.
It occurred to Bobby that a drowning person would move like that.
The hunter was back to the sofa in seconds, and almost ripped his shirt off to take some blood from his arm.
He put a hand on the side of Crowley's head to keep him in place and inject him on the neck.
The miserable whimper at his gesture created a knot in his throat.
Bobby felt a sudden urge to say something, and froze.
Inspiration hit him.
It was a spell.
So, while he pressed the syringe, he said the words of the mysterious page:
Liquorem sacrae quinque
Una mecum estis
It worked immediately: Crowley breathed deeply and relaxed against the back of the sofa.
He didn't open his eyes nor seemed more aware of his surroundings, but the shivering subsided, the hands unclenched and just some sparse confused words were spoken.
The demon was surely in the lower level of stress since he had appeared from nowhere, and Bobby sighed in relief.
Feeling his heartbeat closer to normal, the human patted the demon's chest, 'It seems we gained time for some research, buddy'.