This Is What It Comes Down To

by MandraKara

Gavin never thought he'd find himself standing before his father, the now-King of Hell, 300 years post death. Least of all ready to willingly hand his soul over to him. But everything has a price and Gavin's not willing to comply so easily with the old man's wishes. Co-written with IlanaNight. [Permanent Hiatus]

10. Turnabout 6

Crowley's words had been so much easier to block out before this evening. Before he'd awakened from a nightmare of one of the many occasions in which his father had threatened to kill him if he didn't back off, and he'd defiantly snapped back at him that his mother would be disgusted with him if she could see what had become of him in her absence. The one thing he was more wary of mentioning in his father's Hell-damned presence more than God was his mother. With good reasoning, because the tailor completely flipped his shit on him for even thinking about her before strangling him within an inch of his life.

…Come to find waking up the next morning on their living room floor to their front door being pounded on by people of the town, that the old man had gone and passed out at his mother's gravesite shortly thereafter that, begging for her forgiveness.

The last thing he had wanted to wake up to after a nightmare like that was the bastard in question, specifically when the memory was still clear in his mind and his fear of him was at a high point, and all his father wanted to do was remind him how much he wanted him dead. He could tolerate the fact that Crowley was now Crowley again, but he was beyond the point of shutting him out anymore, and now the more he listened to the demon speak, the greater the desire was to plunge the knife into his throat just to shut him the hell up.

"I don't care if you comprehend me or not." he muttered, refusing to even look at the knife again, and drawing his knees up to his chest. "Yer not turnin' me inta ye. I refuse."

He guffaws, licking his lips. Gavin could sit and pout all he wanted, but Crowley knew that with enough persuasion he'd pick up that blade with confidence. He thought back through the foggy mess of his human memories, searching for a way to push his son over the edge. The answer came to him in the form of a song. A lullaby that was barely present on the edge of his conscious. The memory was painful enough to him, and it had no context.

He sneered down at Gavin and began humming.