Rating: M for mild language and innuendo
Author's Notes: Chapter title comes from the song of the same name, Bad Bad Daddy by Atmosphere.
I would also like to thank everyone who has left reviews and messages on , Archive of Our Own, and Tumblr. I appreciate every single one. Seriously, every time I get a message, I smile like a fool.
I realize that I haven't updated in over a year. This is due to two things. I was concentrating on finishing my Bachelor's Degree, which I finished in December 2014. Three weeks later, I moved across the continent and to another country (4,004 kilometers, in fact) to attend graduate school. And graduate school is freakin' hard; so is trying to navigate another culture, but it's been a blast. I can't promise regular updates, but I can promise that I am not giving up on this story because Craomi are too cute in their very unlikable ways.
I haven't had much of an online presence, so if you have sent me a message that I haven't responded to, please re-send it. I may not have seen it or I might have seen it, planned on responding, then totally forgot because I have a horrible memory.
Chapter 10: Bad Bad Daddy
"Darling, have you seen my blade?"
"Crowley, if you would put it back where it belongs, you wouldn't lose it," responded an exasperated Naomi as she rushed about, simultaneously attempting to put on her earring while helping Crowley look for his blade. She rushed from the living room toward her bedroom upstairs. She was supposed to meet Bartholomew in ten minutes at the designated rendezvous point down the street, chosen by her so that she could keep him from running into Crowley and Zoë. Crowley had only relented the previous day concerning her lockdown status; he'd agreed (with many, many conditions) to let her conduct her business away from the house. Zoë was her unspoken collateral. It wasn't as though she minded; it allowed her to work away from the ever watchful eye of Crowley. She wanted to avoid any inquiries by the meddlesome demon. Also, she simply didn't trust the other angel around her daughter, who'd been less than forthcoming about why she'd been so upset lately. Naomi could only infer that Bartholomew had something to do with it, as there was no other explanation. Subsequently, she watched Zoë like a hawk to make sure she wasn't exposed to any undue influences.
As she made her way past Zoë's room, a nagging feeling caused her to spin around and enter the disaster area occupied by her only child. The sight of all the clothes and other items strewn messily about the floor made the impeccably tidy angel cringe. A half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich lay petrified on the nightstand, a testament to its age; a plant, shriveled and decayed, perched on the window sill, a physical reminder of its owner's neglect. It was a hazard zone. Someone should really put a pair of orange cones outside the door to warn them of the danger that lurked within.
"Zoë, have you seen Crowley's blade?" she asked as she hastily scoured the closet. Naomi then did a quick sweep of the black hole that apparently resided beneath the bed, where sock mates and homework disappeared, never to return again.
"No," the child responded innocently, a little too innocently for her mother's liking.
Naomi sighed, examining the littered floor for the blade. This was getting ridiculous. Her child had not inherited her penchant for obsessive organization and orderliness, that was for sure. She picked up a sweater, a comic book, half of a set of pajamas, a sock, a necklace, a melted Kit Kat bar... Disgruntled, she wondered why in the world her daughter didn't use the copious amounts of space available in the drawers of her dresser to store her things.
"Zoë, why is everything you own on the floor?"
"Gravity, Mama," she replied, rolling her eyes as she played on her iPad.
Her offspring's attempt at cleverness left her feeling even more irritable. She brushed piles of junk aside searching for Crowley's blade. She was sure Zoë had it. Raising her head to scan the room, her eye caught something shiny in a half-opened drawer. It figured that Zoë would try and hide the blade in a place her mother wouldn't have thought to look; it's not like the girl ever used her drawers for storing her extensive, ever-expanding collection of random stuff.
After retrieving the blade, Naomi walked over to the girl and took the iPad out of her hands. "You are grounded. We've told you that you are forbidden to touch our blades."
"Mama," she whined. "Can't we talk about it? I need my iPad! I'll make you a deal—"
"No. I don't have time at the moment and you don't deserve a better deal. This room better be clean when I come back home or your punishment is going to be, in your words, epic."
Anxiously, Naomi dashed downstairs and handed Crowley his blade and Zoë's iPad. "She's grounded. Don't let her have any fun."
"That little demon!" He said it with so much pride in his voice that it earned him a withering glance from the girl's mother. However, he was unapologetic. "Maybe she should have her own blade."
"She's eleven!"
"Exactly."
"No," said Naomi emphatically as she buttoned the jacket of her new dark blue suit.
The new clothes didn't go unnoticed. Crowley's train of thought jumped track as he looked her up and down appreciatively. "What happened to the other suit?"
"I felt it was time for an upgrade," she grinned.
"I can think of other things that need upgrading," he remarked, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively.
"Keep them to yourself. All right, let's go over a few things." It was the first time Crowley would be babysitting Zoë and she wanted to make sure he was prepared.
"Naomi, I can watch an eleven-year old girl. I've had demons at my command for several years; I think you'll find my qualifications as a babysitter quite satisfactory. What could possibly go wrong?"
Amused, Naomi crossed her arms. "You haven't been around many eleven-year old girls, have you?"
"How hard can it be?" he scoffed, visibly insulted that Naomi thought him incapable of handling a child.
"Just you wait and see," she smiled so mischievously that it caused Crowley's eyebrows to disappear into his hairline. "I've instructed Zoë to clean her room; check to make sure she hasn't thrown everything into the closet or under the bed. And no helping her out. If you've snapped your fingers or have your demons do it, I'll know. I've already made lunch and put it in the fridge. Dinner is promptly at seven. Don't give her sugar after eight or she'll be up all night; and believe me, at that point, you'll want her to go to bed as soon as possible. Bedtime is nine-thirty. Do not, under any circumstances, let her talk you into staying up any later. Bedtime is non-negotiable."
"I now understand why you decided to become a bureaucrat. The lack of fun sounded positively titillating to you, didn't it?" he groused.
"Oh, believe me, Zoë will have her fun."
"How long do you expect to be gone?"
"I'm not sure." Crowley saw a shadow pass over her face; she didn't look at him.
Since returning home, Naomi had been acting strangely. Sometimes, she was distant, a haunted look shrouding her face. He knew she had a lot on her mind, but she wasn't the type to be so subdued. There were moments she appeared so absolutely defeated. After Crowley had been home a few days, she'd loosened up somewhat. She laughed little and smiled less. Mostly, he found her pacing in her office, lost in the abyss of her thoughts which had taken over her life lately. She still refused to divulge what went on during the five weeks they were separated, a fact that annoyed him greatly. Obviously something happened, as her demeanor had changed drastically. Between plotting his next move against Abaddon and orchestrating the destruction of all the demons who defected to her side, he concerned himself with gathering information on the angel, who'd become even more secretive in her thoughts and activities.
"You don't know?"
"No, is that a problem?" she snapped.
"A little!" he tossed back. "We haven't even discussed payment!"
"What did you have in mind?" she sighed, checking her watch.
"Well, for starters, something red and lacy..."
"I'm not so sure that look would flatter you, dear," she retorted dryly.
"It's not for me, sweetheart."
"Get your mind out of the gutter."
"I'm a demon; the gutter is like a second home," he quipped, satisfied with her annoyance. "I tell you what...anything up until ten o'clock can be satisfied with red lace and me merely ogling you. Anything afterward will involve more rigorous activity."
"You and Zoë and your negotiations," she couldn't help but laugh, shaking her head.
"I'm a crossroads demon at heart; I'm very good at negotiating."
"And as a so-called bureaucrat, I'm very good at saying no."
"You're also very good at making sure no one else has any fun."
Without warning or pretense, Bartholomew appeared in the living room next to the front door. Both the angel and demon were taken aback at the sight of one another.
Naomi was plain mad.
"Crowley. I can't say I'm pleased to see you," Bartholomew intoned coolly with a smirk on his face.
"Naomi, this is the prick you're meeting?" he exclaimed incredulously, scowling at the unwelcome guest.
"It's none of your business," she spoke sharply, seething at Bartholomew's obvious provocation. She had a feeling he was purposely being confrontational by his deliberate appearance in her home knowing Crowley was around. She'd asked him before to meet her somewhere else, in order to keep Crowley's questions and suspicions at bay, to prevent an inquisition. She hadn't wanted to provide him with any information concerning her endeavors. There would be relentless questions that she wouldn't and couldn't answer. Bartholomew knew this, too. He was purposely trying to make it hard on her.
"I think it is my business!"
"Not now," she hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes shooting daggers at him. Seeing her face, he reluctantly shut up. But he was far from happy about it.
"Are you finished?" Bartholomew drawled in a bored manner. "Because we have a lot of important work to do."
"Aren't you even going to ask me what I'm doing here? You don't look at all surprised by my presence." Crowley approached him casually, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
"I don't really care why you are here, Crowley. And no, I'm not surprised in the least," he smirked, piquing Crowley's curiosity. Bartholomew appeared a little too comfortable and a little too calm at finding the King of Hell in Naomi's house. He briefly mulled over the possibility that it was connected to what had been bothering Naomi, who was presently so tense he thought she'd snap in two.
"Bartholomew, let's go. There's no use in arguing," barked Naomi, whose patience was thin.
Crowley noticed that Bartholomew took Naomi's arm with an air of familiarity, making him bristle with jealousy. That flying ass monkey wouldn't get away with this.
"Wait a minute, love. You didn't say goodbye." Crowley caught Naomi by surprise by pulling her to him, trapping her in his arms as he kissed her heatedly. She managed to shove him off her. He didn't even have the time to gloat as the angel slapped his face so hard she left red marks on his cheek. He rubbed the stinging flesh gingerly with his hand.
Bartholomew appeared unperturbed as he once again took hold of her arm, his eyes locking with Crowley's. "We'll be going now." Suddenly, the image of Naomi's bruised eye flashed in his mind; he wondered if Bartholomew was behind it. If he was responsible, surely Naomi wouldn't be going anywhere with him. Then there was the fact that he was still alive...
Naomi gazed back at him furiously, the faintest hint of desperation lining her words. "You just made a big mistake."
And with that, they vanished, leaving behind a fuming King of Hell.
Angrily, he summoned a couple of demons, barking his orders. "Find Naomi and that feathered asshole, Bartholomew, and follow them. I want a full report on what they do, where they go, who they talk to, and anything else. And do try to stay alive, will you?" With the snap of his fingers, he sent them on their way as while he grumbled audibly to himself in the living room.
"Why are you having Mama followed?" Crowley turned to see Zoë walking toward him. Inwardly, he groaned. It was like having to deal with two Naomis.
"Because she's driving me insane," he growled. He'd meant to say it under his breath, but the precocious angel brat heard every word.
"Are you jealous that Mama went out with Mr. Bartholomew?" she regarded him out of the corner of her eye and was pleased to see the strong reaction the question had elicited from him.
"Jealous? Of that moron? Ha!" Shoving his hands in his pockets, he began purposefully walking back and forth across the living room floor.
"Don't you trust Mama?"
"No! And I don't trust that idiot angel she's with, either!" he roared.
"But I thought relationships were built on trust and respect?"
"Not ours. It's built on animosity and headaches," he sniped.
Zoë became excited and nearly danced where she stood. "So, you're in a relationship? An actual relationship?"
"Gracious no! I wouldn't be in a relationship with that stubborn woman even if Abaddon offered to die and give me Hell!"
"Demons are so confusing." She shook her head. "You and Mama aren't together, then?"
"Define together."
"Well...you do things together, but you don't call it a relationship."
They definitely did things together, thought Crowley, but he wasn't sure if it constituted a non-relationship relationship. Maybe they were friends with benefits without being friends. Enemies with benefits, maybe? He'd have to give it more thought. Or maybe not, because he refused to waste time on the banal musings of an eleven-year old. Trying to figure out his and Naomi's relationship was as difficult as answering the age-old question, "What is the meaning of life?" He and Naomi just were.
"I'll have to get back with you on that," he said as he brushed past her. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do. Go entertain yourself."
"Can't I watch you work?" she asked as she followed him to his basement office like a puppy.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so."
"That's not an answer!"
He turned to face her with a devilish grin. "The King of Hell has spoken. Goodbye, sweetheart." When she heard his fingers snap, she found herself standing in her bedroom, much to her chagrin.
With Zoë out of his hair, he sat as his desk and went to work. After initiating a conference call with the demons responsible for trailing and reporting on Abaddon, he called the demon who'd been tasked with capturing the demon Agiel, a task that had cost Crowley a total of six demons. The seventh demon had lasted the longest, by far, so things were looking up. Rumor had it that Agiel was the one responsible for recruiting Crowley's demons while he had been "under the weather." Over a hundred demons had defected since the onset of Crowley's junkie troubles, a fact that left him in a murderous rage. He'd also learned that Lola had been recruited by Agiel to get intelligence on Crowley and to feed his addiction in hopes he'd become so weak that Abaddon could swoop in for an easy kill.
Too bad that he didn't plan to go that easily. Or lamely.
His demons were also scouting for any information concerning Naomi's grace. Crowley couldn't imagine what Abaddon would want with it. There was no spell, to his knowledge, that required grace to work. Pulling various books off his shelves, he noticed one missing. Naomi probably borrowed it for research, something which she was always doing. He flipped through the worn pages; the books had once belonged to his mother, and were passed to him when she'd disappeared. The words were ingrained in his psyche. Every spell and every incantation was tucked securely into the vast depths of his memory; to him, recalling a spell was as simple as being alive (pre-Abaddon, of course).
He poured over every page, none of which contained any references to an angel's grace. Sending a demon to fetch it would be futile. That ginger whore wasn't likely to leave it laying around where his demons could get their hands on it. This was a job for him, and him only. No one else would be able to get their hands on it, even with the stealthiest subterfuge.
Then there was the matter of Zoë and what Abaddon wanted with her. Unlike grace from an angel, he was certain there were no mentions of children of angels in his books. Unless Zoë was a Nephilim. He couldn't imagine Naomi doing the horizontal mambo with a mere human, though. She was far too arrogant to get involved with a mortal. Although, Bartholomew was an idiot of the highest degree, and Crowley had seen the way Naomi let the angel manhandle her earlier, so maybe she occasionally liked to indulge in inferior specimens. Naomi had said that Abaddon wanted the child for what she was. It would've helped immensely if Naomi had told him what exactly Zoë was so he knew what he was dealing with, but she could never be that straightforward.
Time sped by as Crowley gleaned nothing new from his research. Shutting the last of the books, he sat back in his comfortable chair and realized...it was too damn quiet. He hadn't heard as much as a peep out of the spawn of Naomi, which was rather disconcerting. He knew too well of her propensity for interrupting both him and her mother while trying to work and he hadn't heard a word from her. This couldn't be good.
Heading up the stairs, he thought felt something rush past him going the opposite direction. Turning to look around, he didn't see anything, but he felt that something wasn't right. And he was convinced that whatever it was, it was Zoë's fault.
Just before he opened the door to the girl's bedroom, he heard a strange, high-pitched laugh that didn't belong to her. This couldn't be good. Throwing the door open, he saw Zoë quickly shove something inside the button-up sweater she wore over her shirt. Stepping inside, he found himself ankle-deep in rubbish.
"Hey! You're supposed to knock! I'm a girl and I have privacy rights, you know!" She shifted her eyes nervously from left to right, protectively wrapping her arms around herself to guard the treasure she was attempting to hide.
"Eleven-year olds don't have rights. Sorry, try again." The expression on his face soured as he was trying to figure out just what it was that he was stepping in. He could swear there was a melted chocolate bar stuck to his brand new shoe.
"There's nothing to see here, so you can go back downstairs," she laughed anxiously.
"Oh, but I thought we'd spend some time together." He watched as her face blanched. Taking a step toward her caused her to take a step back. At that same moment, the shrill laughter reverberated throughout the room. "What was that?"
"Nothing," she replied with succinct swiftness, setting off alarm bells. "I'm sure you have very important work to do; don't let little ol' me keep you from it!"
"Zoë..." he said warningly. "What's under your sweater?"
"Nothing. What makes you think there's anything under my sweater?" She pulled her arms even tighter around herself and took another step backward.
"You are a terrible liar. Give it to me." Apprehensive, Zoë glanced at his outstretched hand.
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
He sighed and when he snapped his fingers, Zoë found herself hanging upside-down in the air. The object she clung to so dearly having dropped to the floor.
"Hey! That's not fair!"
"You should be a better liar," he retorted as be bent over to retrieve the object. Instantly recognizing it as the missing book from his bookshelf, he picked it up and demanded, "Did you take this from my bookshelf?"
"...no."
"No? I just caught you trying to hide it!"
"Then why did you ask me if I took it? Did you really expect me to say yes? I'm not going to tell on myself!"
He pinched the bridge of his nose for probably the hundredth time since knowing her. He didn't know how Naomi did it. If it had been up to him, he would've gifted this child to Lilith.
"What were you doing with it?" he asked sternly, but his attention was caught by something moving beneath Zoë's bed. Leaving her hanging in mid-air, he crouched down to get a better look when something reached out and painfully pinched his nose with long, talon-like nails.
Jumping back, he saw a small gremlin-like creature bolt run from beneath the bed and out the door.
"Zoë, tell me right now...what did you do? And don't leave out anything!" He shouted and rubbed his nose, which was turning a bright shade of red.
"Ok, but don't get mad at me."
"Too late!" he yelled. "Tell me now!"
"Well, I like unicorns and I wanted to see one, but I didn't know where to find them. So, I thought I would summon one."
"Unicorns don't exist!" He needed an aspirin. Scratch that, he needed a hit of blood.
"Oh, but dragons, vampires, and werewolves exist?" she crossed her arms in disbelief.
"I don't make the rules!"
"I wish I had known that before I did the spell!"
"…what spell?" There was fear in his voice.
"I found a spell in that book. I've been reading some of your books when Mama's been working. I like the pictures. Anyway, I decided to try and summon a unicorn. I found all the ingredients in your desk."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing! "There's no spell for summoning unicorns because they don't exist!"
"That explains why I couldn't find one. I had to make up my own."
"What do you mean, make up your own?" The King of Hell wasn't often scared, as he was the bloody King of Hell. All the things that inspired fear were tools he used to scare others. But there he was, standing in the middle of a little girl's bedroom trying to figure out what the hell she unleashed and how she did it so he could undo it, hopefully before her mother came home and got them both into trouble. It was enough to make him a little wary.
This is not what he signed up for when he agreed to watch the little menace.
"I just picked a spell and changed some words so that instead it said 'unicorn' instead of 'Sandman.'"
"You let the Sandman loose in the house? Have you any idea of the chaos it can cause when trapped here?" His blood pressure at this moment was so high, he feared he was going to pass out. There were only a couple of ways a demon could die, and it involved the appropriate blade or incantation. But he was sure this child would find a way around that. Her mere presence was inducing a stroke in him.
"I didn't know! I thought I was getting a unicorn!"
"What have I always told you about doing spells in the house?" he boomed in acute irritation.
"Don't tell Mama!"
"Besides that!"
"Um...always be supervised?" she offered sheepishly.
"And were you supervised?"
"No, but that's not entirely my fault! You and Mama shouldn't have left such books where I could get my hands on them. You should hide them in the drawer where Mama hides her blade. I am just a child, you know. Maybe you should watch me closer."
At her cheek, Crowley's eyes glowed red. Frightened, she swallowed visibly and shut her mouth. She'd never seen his eyes do that before.
Snapping his fingers, she fell to the floor. "Come on, we have a Sandman to catch."
"Since you're already mad at me, you couldn't possibly get any madder at me if I told you there were two Sandmans...could you? Or is it Sandmen? What would be the plural of Sandman?"
Oh dear God. "How did you manage to summon two Sand…men?"
"After the first time I didn't get a unicorn, I did the spell again."
If possible, the red eyes became even redder. "Bollocks!" he cursed. "After this is over, you and I are going to sit down for a little chat, but first, we have a couple of Sandmen to catch. And it won't be pleasant!"
"I'm so excited! My first Sandman, uh, Sandmen! Will they try to hurt me?" Her big blue eyes looked up at him as they went looking for the creatures.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you about the Sandman? Nevermind. Of course she didn't. It would require an imagination, which she doesn't possess," he sighed. "The Sandman is responsible for seeing that children sleep and dream. There is a good one and an evil one. The good Sandman visits sleeping children and sprinkles sand onto their eyes, causing them to have a restful sleep and sickeningly pleasant dreams."
"And the evil Sandman?" Zoë asked giddily.
"He visits naughty children who are still awake when the clock strikes midnight. He appears suddenly, shrouded in the shadows of the bedroom. The children have no idea he's there until he throws sand in their eyes, which blinds them. Desperate to get the sand out, they rub until their eyes bleed and fall out of the sockets. As the eyeballs are rolling around aimlessly on the floor, the evil Sandman plucks them up with his large talon-like nails and throws them in his bag. When he returns to his home on the moon, he feeds the eyeballs to his children, who look like scaly, featherless birds."
Crowley was trying to paint a gruesome picture for the girl, mainly to frighten her so that she wouldn't do anything foolish, like try to summon unicorns and making up her own spells, again. He looked at her and felt rather pleased with himself when he saw her eyes as round as dollar coins and her mouth hanging wide open.
Once she found her voice, she spoke again, this time her tone was a mixture of enthusiasm and a reverent awe. "I want to meet him."
That wasn't the reaction he was going for.
"You're bloody warped; you know that, right?"
"Come on, Mr. Crowley, let's go find them!" She grabbed his hand and pulled him out the door.
The hunt for Sandman Number One and Sandman Number Two was an exercise in patience and restraint. Crowley really wanted to snap his fingers and make Zoë disappear while he cleaned up her mess. The little sprog talked too much and was too enthusiastic. He wasn't sure if she knew just how serious this whole situation was; it seemed like a somewhat dangerous game of hide-and-go seek. Losing her eyeballs didn't deter her whatsoever. Crowley began to fear that he was losing his touch. In the past, his mere presence was enough to inspire fear. This imp masquerading as a child saw delight in danger; she was reckless and fearless.
"Mr. Crowley, if all we needed was a spell to bring the Sandmen here, can't we send them back using a spell?" They were in the kitchen, following the sounds of laughter and other miscellaneous banging and knocking that seemed to be all over the house.
"Yes, but a few conditions have to be met first. Get out the book and read the page about sending the Sandman…Sandmen…whatever…back to where they came from."
Quickly, Zoë opened the book to the section of spells concerning the Sandman. It took a couple of minutes, during which they heard a series of thuds come from the basement. "I found it! The banishing spell… Um, it says, 'The Sandman must be lured inside a circle of chamomile oil mixed with poppy seeds. Once inside the circle, they are trapped unless the circle is broken. In a bowl, mix together dragon's blood, thyme, crushed pieces of a falling star, sand, and graveyard dirt. Ground them together while saying the following: I banish thee to—"
Crowley interrupted her, "That's enough. We need to get the ingredients."
"Don't you have them in your drawer?" she asked him, more than a little anxious. Thinking about doing a spell was exciting; doing a spell and wondering if it may or may not work was even more exciting; doing a spell to correct a wrong spell and hoping it worked or else you may get grounded for life by your mother was not exciting at all.
"Oh yeah, sure, I carry around essence of fallen star in my pocket everywhere I go. Never know when I'm going to need it." He rolled his eyes and bellowed, "No, I don't have a fallen star in my inventory! This is why before you do any sort of spell you look over not only how to summon something, but how to banish it and make sure you have every single ingredient, preferably a double supply in case you screw up! Did you do that?"
"No," she replied weakly.
"Of course you didn't. And you know why? Because you weren't supervised! I told you to be supervised!"
"I wouldn't be doing magic if you had just let me watch you work!" She crossed her arms and glared at him.
He decided then and there that hated babysitting. He would never, ever volunteer to babysit again. He knew his face was red, as he could feel the heat rising from within. It was surprising that he hadn't spontaneously combusted, ending up a little pile of ash and dust on the floor at Zoë's feet. The kid was obviously some kind of monster he hadn't heard of before with the special power to overcome her enemy by generating so much irritation and, thus, insanity that said enemy merely gave up on life and imploded. He would ask the Winchesters about such a monster the next time he had the misfortune of crossing their paths.
In that moment, he wanted to strike down several demons and raid a distillery, preferably full of Craig. But first, he and Zoë had to clean up this mess before Naomi returned.
Attempting to calm down, he spoke slowly, each syllable forced out of his mouth in staccato, "I have some of these ingredients in my desk downstairs. The fallen star and poppy seeds I will have to procure. I know where to get them. You cannot come with me."
"Why not?" Was that fear he detected in her voice? She'd been giddy at the prospect of danger just a short while earlier.
"Ah, scared are you?"
"No!" She was terrified. Hidden behind all that pride was terror.
"You'll be fine. Look, I can't take you with me because if your mother found out, I'd never hear the end of it and she'd probably kill me." They hear another thump in the attic above them, followed by a crash. Zoë looks up, startled by the commotion.
"I'm not afraid," she said in a shaky voice.
"Good." He takes his blade out of his jacket. "I know Naomi said a bunch of blah blah blah about you having a blade, but this is for protection. I shouldn't be gone long. The good Sandman won't bother you. It's the evil Sandman you have to worry about. You don't want to turn into kibble for its ugly reptile children. Keep the lights on. If he throws sand in your eyes, I don't care how much it burns, do not rub them." He hands her his blade. "Do you understand?"
She nods and takes the blade; her hand tightens around the grip.
He didn't want to leave. He knew it was probably a bad idea. There was no other choice. He disappeared in a flash, leaving Zoë to herself.
It was quiet for several minutes, then she began hearing the creaking of the floorboards, first overhead, then on the same floor. She ran to her mother's bedroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. The overhead light was on, but she turned on the two lamps in the room as well. Her breath sped up as her ears strained to hear any noise that would tell her the location of the Sandman and his proximity to her. Her heart thumped loudly against her chest and she could hear the blood swooshing in her ears. Nervously, she looked around the room, holding the blade in front of her, willing her hand to stop shaking. Crowley seemed to be taking forever.
Her back against the wall, she scanned the room, left to right to left. The noises, which now sounded like heavy footprints, were getting closer and closer until they suddenly stopped. And then the worst thing that could possibly happen happened: the lights went out.
In scary movies, when the lights went out, that's when the actors started doing stupid stuff that got them killed. Zoë decided not to be the dumb character who ran to the top floor with no escape route to get away from the serial killer-slash-monster. She was going to stay alive. She gripped the blade even tighter as she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and turned on the flashlight. She thought she saw something in the crack of the door near the floor.
"Don't come any closer! I have a blade!"
Loud, cacophonous laughter reverberated throughout the room. It wasn't coming from one place; it sounded like it was coming from everywhere.
"Is that all you can do is laugh? Because that's kind of lame." Somehow, she was finding some adrenaline-based courage, no matter how feeble it seemed. She needed to be brave! She thought of Naomi; her mother would be brave! She wouldn't back down and be frightened. She was a badass! That made Zoë feel better.
Of course, her mother was also an angel and angels had awesome powers, which made Zoë feel worse.
But her mother didn't have her powers at all right now, which was just plain unhelpful in helping Zoë decide if she should feel better or worse and how that should determine how much courage she should currently possess.
Her eyes! She had to protect her eyes! Her thoughts were going a mile a minute as her body prepared for the fight-or-flight moment that would either prove her worth or prove her doom. Thinking quickly, she pulled her sunglasses from the pocket of her sweater. She'd kept them in there hoping that Crowley would take her out somewhere. Throwing them on, she really couldn't see anything now. She didn't have to see anything, though. She felt something close by. Goosebumps erupted on her arms and the tiny hairs all over her body stood on end.
"I know you're there," she said, attempting to sound fearless and probably failing. Please, Mr. Crowley, please, please, please come back. I need you to come back now.
A floorboard near her creaked and she knew the Sandman was getting closer. She had to get her breathing under control because she was on the verge of hyperventilating. All of a sudden, Zoë saw the dark outline of what looked to be talons in front of her face, reaching toward her. It was only barely distinguishable in the dark, which was compounded by the sunglasses, but Zoë saw it and screamed. Without hesitation (but with a lot of panic), she raised the blade and sliced through the air, bringing the metal down hard to feel it rip through sinew and bone. The Sandman let out a high-pitched, angry shriek, which threatened to make the girl's ears bleed, and retreated. With his exit, the lights flickered back on. Zoë removed the glasses to see a bloody arm on the floor with long, spindly fingers sprouting razor-like talons on their ends.
She stared for a long time. She couldn't believe it. She'd cut off the arm of the Sandman.
"What the bloody hell happened?"
The familiar voice dragged her away from her pensive, internal self-congratulatory moment to a more external one. "I cut the Sandman's arm off!" She held the bloodied sword up as evidence for her dastardly, yet utterly necessary deed.
"Well, I'll be damned." Crowley was impressed. Standing over the leathery severed arm, he nudged it a little with the toe of his shiny black shoe. He had half-expected to return and have to replace an eyeball.
In a clear state of frenzy, no doubt triggered by endorphins resulting from exercising a bit of self-preservation, she began talking very rapidly in a voice that quaked with uncertainty as well as exhilaration, "I remembered what you said about protecting my eyes, so I put my sunglasses on and I saw him reach for me, probably to murder me or squeeze my eyeballs out of my head or something else equally as bloody, so I took the sword and I shanked him!" She did a dramatic re-enactment of the moment the poor creature lost its arm to an eleven-year old girl. There was less fear and more Kung Fu in this version, but the story was essentially the same. Sort of.
"First 'twatwaffle' and now 'shank.' Where are you acquiring such scurrilous vocabulary?"
Zoë rolled her eyes. "I'm not a baby, you know. Does this mean I can have my own blade?"
Whilst earlier Crowley had felt that the child was ready to take responsibility for a sharp item meant to maim and dismember, as he looked at the severed arm that was laying lifelessly in the floor, he thought it prudent to change his opinion. Naomi was right. For once.
"No."
"But you said—"
"This is not open for discussion! Now, if you wouldn't mind getting your mind back to the task at hand, we have Sand…men to catch!"
Luring the good Sandman and the evil Sandman to the circle of chamomile oil and poppy seeds was harder than what it looked in the spellbook. The only solution was to use Zoë as bait, which she was all too eager to do because Crowley let her use his blade again. He swiftly took it back, much to Zoë's chagrin, once the creatures were trapped. Impatiently, he taught Zoë how to properly grind the ingredients together, as his mother had taught him centuries ago.
As the girl was reciting the incantation over the now burning ingredients, Crowley's phone rang. It was most inconvenient, but then, everything about that day had been inconvenient. Looking at his phone, he saw that Squirrel's name appeared on its screen. Ah. Moose was most likely there with him listening. "Hello, boys," he answered.
The sudden disruption caused her to turn around and sigh at him in vexation. Like her mother, she did not like to be interrupted. "Mr. Crowley!"
"Don't stop!" he yelled. If Zoë hadn't been in the middle of a spell and if he hadn't been on a phone call, he would have explained that spells weren't like movies. One couldn't stop and resume at a later time. Interrupting a spell rendered it useless.
"But—"
"Keep talking!"
Zoë continued casting the spell and Crowley left the basement to go upstairs. "This better be good."
"Crowley, what was that about?" asked Dean suspiciously.
"Did you interrupt me to ask asinine questions or did you need something?" he snapped. His waning patience with this entire day had just about dwindled into absolutely nothing.
"If you're in a bad mood, I can call you back later, but I thought you'd like to know that we've captured somebody you've been wanting for a while now."
"I doubt you've captured Abaddon. For starters, you're still alive."
"Not Abaddon, douche. Agiel."
Crowley was speechless. His demons had been searching for Agiel for months. He'd lost a few dozen demons hunting for that asshole. To be fair, most of his demons were morons, so he didn't want to give Agiel too much credit.
"Text me the location and I'll be there in ten."
"Ten? I tell you I've got a demon you've been foaming at the mouth for and you tell me you need ten minutes? What happened to showing up before I've even had the chance to hang up the phone?"
"I have a couple of things I need to tend to before I can meet you," he explained testily. Then quickly added, "Not that it's any of your business."
"You're being secretive. You hitting the blood again?"
Just then, Zoë emerged from the basement, whining, "Mr. Crowley! You missed it! I did a spell and it actually worked the way it was supposed to!"
"Got to go." Crowley abruptly ended the call and turned toward her. "Good. Where are your babysitters?"
"I'm looking at him," she returned bluntly.
"I meant the ones your mother usually employs while she indulges her workaholic tendencies."
"They're out. Everyone is out following Mama because you like her and you think Mr. Bartholomew is trying to make a move on her."
"I am not! I do not like your mother! They're following her because I don't trust angels."
"Yeah, like I said, you don't trust Mr. Bartholomew around Mama. He's not so bad, you know. At least he doesn't treat me like I'm a baby." She punctuated her sentence with a glare in Crowley's direction.
"Pardon? If I thought you were a baby, would I have left you with my blade while I went to look for the ingredients to the spell to counteract the spell you bungled?"
Zoë said nothing, but she did glower. She'd perfected the art of glowering sullenly since being holed up in the house with a mother who seemed to work twenty-four-seven, the King of Hell who came and went as he pleased, and a host of surly demons who stopped talking as soon as she entered the room.
"And if I thought were such a baby, would I have left you to take a phone call and let you finish the spell on your own?" His phone vibrated, notifying him of the text from Dean. Opening it, he saw the address of where Squirrel was holding Agiel.
"Whatever. You just want me out of the way like Mama."
"Unfortunately, I don't have time to join your pity party. I have some place I need to be."
"Of course," she sighed and threw herself onto the couch.
Children, he thought in absolute irritation. They should all be carted off at birth to a little deserted island somewhere in the middle of the ocean; when they reached twenty-one years of age, they would be allowed to leave and join society.
"You are being a thorn in my side. This is important business and necessary to my work." She was a child of Naomi; he tried to reason with her. It was a futile attempt.
"That's what my mother always says. Maybe I should run away. After all, there isn't anyone to watch me if you leave. I could run away and you wouldn't know. And when my mother finds out, she'll blame you. And I wouldn't want to be here when she finds out. Mr. Bartholomew would take me with him. In fact, he's already offered to take me with him. All I have to do is ask."
That set off alarm bells in Crowley's head. What did that prick want with Naomi's daughter? Wasn't he supposed to be busy at war with the other faction—Malachi's faction? Since when would he have time to entertain impertinent eleven-year olds? It was all too peculiar. He wondered if Naomi knew about this.
"Bartholomew is a prat. Why your mother picked him to be her closest, most glorified minion, I will never understand. He wouldn't even know how to flap his wings if it wasn't programmed into his feathered brain!"
"He's nice!" Zoë shouted, her hands balling into fists. "And we talk all the time. It's not like Mama's around to talk to me. He said that someday, when I'm bigger, that maybe I can take over his job. It's a very important job, you know."
"Being the King of Hell is a very important and complex job. Wearing an ugly suit and sporting a Ken Doll haircut while sitting behind a desk making everyone else do your dirty work is so one-dimensional and terribly…prosaic. No imagination, no creativity, no charisma. If that is who you aspire to be…then you're more like your mother than I thought and I'm deeply sorry."
"I don't like you!"
Crowley was about to form a marvelous retort, but his phone vibrated again. It was another text from Dean.
Where are you? The clock is ticking, dick.
Always a charmer, that one.
Grumbling as he shoved his phone in his pocket, he made the only choice he could make. It was, indeed, a day of limited choices. "There is no way I can leave you home alone. You're coming with me so you can stop your complaining. Let's go over some rules—"
"I thought you said rules were for people like my mother?" she sassed.
He wondered silently if Abaddon babysat angel spawn…
"Your mother and her progeny," he clarified. His exasperation was building at an alarming rate. "Rule number one: you listen to every word I say. Every word. Do not, I repeat, do not talk to anybody. This little excursion may be, er, slightly more dangerous that the Sandman mishap."
At the word 'dangerous,' Zoë's tone changed instantly. "Another adventure?"
"That's not quite the word I had in mind."
"Do I get to use your blade again?" The excitement was almost too much for her (for the second time that night). Her small hands were too eager to hold a blade once more.
"Not mine." Removing it from the inside of his jacket, Crowley presented his young charge with her mother's blade. It glittered in the yellow light from an overhead fixture. To Zoë, Naomi's blade was like Excalibur; it was so majestic to eleven-year old eyes. She had never dared to touch it before, and not because of Naomi's threats of groundings and extra chores. That didn't stop her from occasionally opening up her mother's desk drawer where it was kept to admire it, though. Holding it rendered her incapable of speech. "Use this only if absolutely necessary. And don't tell your mother!"
Zoë managed to nod in solemnity. She grasped the weapon until her knuckles paled.
Crowley hoped that it wouldn't have to be used. He hoped that he could show up, take custody of Agiel, and then appear back at Naomi's; no fuss, no fight. He didn't feel comfortable taking the brat; if she got maimed or worse, Naomi would kill him. (Well, she could try, but he was quite wily.) However, he wasn't going to let the Winchesters have all the fun. Oh no. He had plans for this bastard. It will be thrilling to make him scream, and not in the sexy way. While the dulcet tones of Agiel's pain-induced screaming filled Crowley's ears, he would take turns imagining it was Abaddon and every other bloody traitor in his kingdom who turned their backs on him.
Crowley also hoped he could torture some information out of him concerning Naomi's grace in the process. He wasn't sure what Abaddon was planning, but he was fairly certain it couldn't be anything good if it required an angel's grace. And if he didn't get Naomi's grace back immediately, it wouldn't be good for his livelihood. Briefly, he wondered if Naomi's missing grace and Abaddon's interest in Zoë were connected. It troubled him. He was resolute that he would find out. Woe be unto Agiel, for the King of Hell was coming for him.
"Where are we going?" Zoë asked curiously, her head tilted up at Crowley.
"To conduct business. I'm going to show you what a real ruler looks like."
In the blink of an eye, they disappeared.