So I did a thing a while back (forestofmyown. tumblr/ post/ 52989237881/ what-goes-through-my-mind-when-i-see-these, minus the spaces) and I finally decided to break down and do a fic for it. And honestly, I love it. I hope it turned out as well as I think it did, because it makes me super happy. Set before Crowley ever met Sam and Dean in person., Domestic!Crowley, everyone!
The sight of a blade slathered in red, dripping with the leftover life of what he was sure was once a lovely young thing, was always something that got Crowley's mood up. It didn't matter what kind of trash day he'd had; never mind that sleazy, two-bit Crossroads Demon schmoozing in on his deal, or his Hellhound maiming someone he'd wanted to deal with in the process of fetching a soul, or that he'd lost yet another lackey to the boys in plaid. Knife piercing flesh, crimson cascading down, was always guaranteed to put him back on his game. He could almost feel the tension slipping from his shoulders and he held his victim in place, cutting again and again and again.
And not just the butchering. He had his rituals to perform, and habits shift the weary body into a natural state of contentedness, letting muscles resume tasks they are accustomed to, comfortable in, natural by now. Crowley readies his ingredients, dicing and grinding and whatnot, letting the heat build for the finale as he marks off another box in his mental checklist.
Everything's coming to a climax. He grins, taking his bloody captive across the floor. The room fills with the searing sounds of flesh on hot metal, the sizzle of blood boiling, the smoke of meat burning. And he keeps on smiling.
A hound howls.
Crowley cocks an eyebrow. "Ah. Company. Right on time."
He leaves his corpse to cook, wiping his bloody knife on his apron as he saunters over to the next room, where he slides open the glass door to the dark. There isn't a moon in the sky, which is clouded over with the threat of a storm, and the blackness encompasses most the back yard, despite the lights out front. The Demon waves out at the nothingness, knife still in hand.
"I keep telling you," he calls, tsking. "Your never gonna get passed my dogs."
And with that, he disappears back into the house. Moments later, footsteps follow after.
"Well, when I finally figure out where you're hiding the mutts, I'll be able to sneak passed them."
Crowley chuckles, reaching for his bowl of spices. He siphons them slowly into the skilled with the slices of sirloin, careful to stir it all, watchful of burns. "Wouldn't be very good security if I told you were they were, now would they?"
His companion perches herself upon an empty bar-stool beside his still bloody cutting board, trying to pull off a sulk convincingly. It melts when Crowley shoots her a grin over his shoulder as he reaches for his oil and lets it drizzle into the frying pan.
"Didn't tip off any of the guards, though, did I?"
"Course not." Crowley returns jovially. "But you've been doing this for enough years that I expect they don't even bat an eye at the sight of a shadow jumping over my wall."
He sets the skillet down and wipes his hands on a towel. "Bad for my safety, you are."
"Please," she pops a stray grape tomato into her mouth, which provokes an "Ah eh eh!" from the chef. "Is there seriously anyone stupid enough to mess with you? Your like the Godfather."
Ego stroked, Crowley pulls out an open bottle of Craig from his kitchen rack and pours them both glasses. She has no idea, of course. He isn't sure if he should be amused or annoyed that she hasn't figured it out after all these years. Is she dimmer than he has given her credit for, or is this just a testament to his skills? He does have over 400 years of practice at hiding what he is, after all. He can't blame her for thinking him a mob boss or something and letting it drop.
The mob. It's almost laughable compared to what he's really into. If she only knew she was sharing a drink with the King of the Crossroads (though, thinking about it, it probably wouldn't change anything, would it? She already assumes the worst of him, after all – and she still comes over when he's home).
She throws back her glass, downing the gulp with a visible tremor. He laughs out loud at her reaction, he always does.
Dani hates to drink, but every time he hands her a glass, she takes it. Desperate for companionship, that's what she is. A rebellious child left in a mansion by parents who're never home with a grandfather who spends all his time lost in war stories, who climbs a fence and breaks in next door whenever she sees a light in the window.
"Food ready yet?" she tries to use her words to cover the cough the Craig has caused.
"Hold your horses, I just put the steak on, for goodness sakes." He sips his own drink, swirling the ice around. "And I'm not even gonna mention the croissants."
"What's wrong with the croissants?"
"Bloody everything!" he bellows, thrusting his arm out accusingly at the oven. "I try something new and what happens? My normally beautiful, golden, fluffy rolls of goodness just collapse!"
Dani pops off her stool and leans down next to the offending appliance, flipping on the tiny light so she can see inside. "Huh. I see. What happened?"
"What happened? Nothing happened! They're friggin flat-breads!" The Demon shakes his head and takes another long drink. "Mercy."
"They don't look bad."
"Don't you start defending them. Blasted things are going in trash where they belong."
"I wanna try one."
"You aren't eating that garbage."
"Nothing you make could ever be garbage."
The bottle in his hand stops halfway to his glass. "Now you're just kissing up."
"I don't deny it."
". . . one bite."
Dani stands and smiles, childishly and sincerely. "You're an angel."
Crowley smiles right back. "I'm really not."