A/N: Crowley is my favorite so far, so I wanted to start with him. Again, I don't know much about Supernatural canon other than what I've seen in a couple episodes and on Youtube, so any guidance would be much appreciated. :) Please r&r!
He strode past the queue of tormented souls, humming cheerfully. There was always a swell of business around Christmastime—people's priorities got delightfully skewed and idealism was as virulent as Ebola. He loved it.
He checked his watch. Liam Sandberg, Canadian, thirty-four years old. Due in five minutes. Had wanted his sister's leukemia cured. Sandberg was a small fish; he sent a fresh-faced intern to collect.
Perks of power? Delegation. He rarely had to get his hands dirty these days, although he made a point to get involved every now and then just to show the ambitious and the upstarts why he was at the top of the food chain. Still, he straightened his black tie, a smirk of satisfaction curving his lips, he hadn't ruined a suit in months.
Hm hm mm…He scowled, trying to get that song out of his head. Infernal Christmas specials. He'd never understood how they'd gotten so popular. If he could just remember the words…the song had amused him once.
He checked his watch again. Three minutes until Loretta Jones joined his little flock. American, forty-eight. Had wanted her son to come back from the Middle Eastern country that the US had been fighting at the time. Four minutes, twenty-eight seconds until Aynn Dawes, Australian, thirty-two, left the child she'd wished for to a negligent husband forever.
Happy Christmas indeed.
He sighed and stopped walking, suddenly bored. All work and no play…Collection was a menial practice—the actual negotiation was the fun part. Persuasion was an art, as any good salesman could tell you. Convincing the customer to buy and sell was the modern hunt—he loved his job and was damn good at it—but game retrieval was a task for the dogs.
Names and numbers crowded his mind, clamoring in time with that damn song. Calls from above, petty complaints, passionate precursors to an eternity of regret, filtered through the dull morass of collection notifications like whispers of diamond dust through a flood of tar. Gratefully, he escaped, ascending to Earth.
"That's better," he sighed, exhaling a plume of heated breath. The bitter chill stung his cheeks, seeped into his host's marrow as he savored the night.
The stars were out. He peered up at the blue-black ceiling, at the white pinpricks that pierced it. A strange sort of remote beauty, they had. No stars in Hell.
He hunched his shoulders against a sudden wind and turned to his first summons.
Hm hm mm hm mm mm hm hm… That song still wouldn't leave him alone.
He closed his eyes, making a concentrated effort to calm himself. Away, all the impending collection stress. Away, the worries about the Leviathans. Away, the adrenaline rush preceding a prospective deal.
Just…him.
After a few moments, he opened his eyes, grinning. There it was. Huh.
He crunched off through the thin layer of snow, singing under his breath.
"If you sit on my lap today, a kiss a toy is the price you pay…"