Chapter 10
Crowley sat in the booth with his contact and began to rattle off his sales routine from memory; thinking and speaking were now two completely separate things. It was a shame he couldn't spend more time in Las Vegas. It was a real land of opportunities, bursting at the seams with depressed losers. He could see himself rolling in lost souls like Scrooge McDuck rolling in money. Perhaps a vacation was in order.
A cocktail napkin slid across the table interrupted his fantasy but luckily not his flow. He continued his mantra without so much as a stutter or a breath out of rhythm. Under the napkin was a tiny key, which Crowley used to unlock his rather inconvenient handcuffs. This was going to work. This was actually going to work. He was pleasantly surprised that his demon accomplices were performing competently. The dimwit in front of him had picked the girl's pocket rather stealthily and retrieved the key, and the three bimbos were providing a diversion as he spoke.
He grinned with satisfaction as he dropped the cuffs on the booth's leather seat. The demon across the table – Crowley's underling, not the vampire he told Moose and Squirrel he was meeting – scribbled something on the napkin and indicated the bar's two lonely patrons and the bartender. It said: "What should I do with them?"
Crowley flashed angry eyes, and the other demon cowered. "You will collect their souls in exactly three days," Crowley growled as he willed the bar flies to the middle of the desert. "Now, try to keep up." Crowley disappeared.
"Another one bites the dust." Crowley sighed without much enthusiasm as the vampire before him burned from the inside out and crumbled into powder on the operating table.
"Sir? I'm sorry to disturb you, but we found something exciting," a minion said from the doorway. He recognized the voice immediately but couldn't put a name to it. He had selected a handful of overeager demons to serve him on Earth, guarding his safe house and bringing the packages. Of course, he had allowed the underlings to think they were among an elite few, hand chosen by the king. But, in reality, he had all but thrown darts at a list of scribbles. They had fallen all over each other, slobbering like dogs. It was sickening, but not unsatisfying.
Crowley stifled the urge to turn the demon into a pile of ash right next to what was left of the vampire on his table. He turned to face the diminutive man in the black suit. He required all his minions to wear suits now – part of Hell's facelift: It made associating with morons slightly more tolerable and, occasionally, snazzy.
"And?" Crowley asked expectantly.
The demon, who had apparently become stricken with stage fright, stared at Crowley like a deer in the headlights. Crowley gave it ten seconds, ten painstakingly long seconds.
"What is it?" Crowley prodded.
"A rugaru," the demon replied.
"Fantastic," said Crowley, sarcastically. "Do you know I have tried variations of the Lazarus potion on fifty two – that's right: fifty two – monsters? Do you know what happened to them all? The vampires, as you can see, burnt to ash! The bloody shapeshifters morphed through so many skins that they ended up looking like sopping, moldy bread! The Djinns poisoned themselves into comas, and the werewolves' hearts vaporized in their chests! So, thank you, so much for bringing me a rugaru. It can eat itself to death!"
Crowley took a deep breath and felt a brief moment of calm: the calm before the storm.
"What bloody use is an immortal biblical figure if I can't manipulate his power?!" Crowley roared.
"Um, I don't know, sir," whimpered the terrified demon.
"No, of course you don't. You don't know where the prophet is. You can't locate the tablet. What bloody use are you?" Crowley asked calmly. He grabbed a vial of the Lazarus potion and shoved it down the demon's throat, glass and all. Then, he watched with a mixture of satisfaction, disappointment, and intrigue as the demon began to convulse. His eyes turned black, and black smoke poured from every orifice. Within fifteen seconds, the demon exploded in a cloud of black smoke that slowly faded away.
"Fifty three."
"I want answers!" Crowley insisted.
"I don't know," the worn-out wisp of a man answered placidly in Aramaic.
"You don't know how you've stayed alive for two millennia?"
"I already told you that."
"Yes, yes. You told me that the son of God rose you from the dead, but how?" Crowley emphasized.
"He is the son of God," Lazarus answered.
"Yes … the son of God … God was quite formidable in His time – plagues, wrath, genocide, but …" Crowley allowed a chuckle punctuate his sentence. "Unlike Him, I understand that in order to maintain a successfully terrifying dictatorship, a leader must understand the mistakes of the past … as well as the successes of the future. Now, I need answers!"
"Jesus rose me from my grave with His divine power," Lazarus answered.
"Yes, I understand the rising from the grave part! What I don't understand is the two millennia that followed!"
"'I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die, and whoever lives by believing in me will never die,'" said Lazarus.
Insulted, Crowley said, "Don't quote scripture to me! I've heard every version … except yours. Now, I want the unabridged version, or I will make the next two millennia truly a living Hell."
"One hundred and twenty six," Crowley muttered to himself, a hairy and heartless werewolf carcass before him. The full moon shone through a tiny window far above him.
"Sir?"
"What in the bloody hell is it?!" Crowley bellowed. "Another rugaru?"
"No, sir," said the confused woman, who didn't catch the reference to the rugaru. "It's the angel."
"Castiel?" Crowley dropped his tools; this woman had his full attention.
"We've found him," she said proudly.
"Where?"
Crowley stalked Castiel for hours, from city to city, state to state. Cas appeared to be searching for something. He walked into a library in Phoenix, Arizona, skimmed through a reference book about toads, then one on forest fires. After that, he moved on to the young adult section, where he spent another ten minutes perusing the Twilight series.
Next, it was on to Sandwich, Illinois. "Who in their right mind would name a town Sandwich?" Crowley mused aloud. There, Cas closely examined several trees in a park, gently fingering the bark, then removing a piece and smelling it.
His next stop was Bar Harbor, Maine. Boats. Endless boats in a marina, and the salty stench of fish and crustaceans. Then, on to Florida: the Everglades. "What could he possibly be looking for in bloody swampland?" Crowley was getting frustrated. How long was he going to have to continue this chase? As he watched Cas wade through murky water, it dawned on him that he was on a chase, alright, but not the chase he had thought. It might be appropriate if Cas started flying south and honking because all this flitting around was nothing but a wild goose chase.
"That wily little fairy …" Crowley said to himself. His first inclination was to grab Cas right here and now, but, being the cleverer one, he held off. No, he would wait. Cas was clearly trying to lead him off the scent. If he went in for the kill now, he would never find the tablet or the prophet. Best to let Cas think he had shaken his tail and strike when he let his guard down, when he finally led Crowley to the prize.
Crowley let Cas disappear without giving chase, but he kept tabs on his feathered mark. While he was smirking at his genius, a hungry alligator floated near him. Crowley turned an eye upon the beast, and it submerged and swam away as quickly as its nineteen-foot-long body could carry it.
It took ten more cities in seven states before Castiel finally let his guard down. The final stop: Biloxi, Mississippi. Crowley watched from a distance, shrouded in magic that made him nearly undetectable; Cas would have to be specifically looking for him to see him. And, now that the angel had regained his sense – albeit false – of security, he wasn't.
Cas made his way into a small grocery store, and Crowley followed. Cas walked up and down each aisle, examining each face he passed, and Crowley followed. Cas stepped into the frozen food section and stopped. Crowley waited one aisle over, next to couscous and instant rice mixes, hesitant to follow in case Cas suspected he was being followed. He heard footstep and shuffling noises, and, finally, the undeniable whoosh that could only mean one thing: angel teleportation. He hurried around the corner in time to see Cas, alone, holding the tablet. Crowley's magic was broken; Cas saw him. Cas' lips turned ever so slightly upward as he sent the tablet to a hiding place Crowley could only guess at.
Crowley raged and, with the snap of his fingers, called a squad of demons down on the angel. Preparing for a fight, Cas reached for his angel blade, which appeared in Crowley's hand. The confidence left his face, and Crowley knew the angel was about to bail. Crowley snapped his fingers again and watched, delighted, as Cas wavered on his feet.
Crowley nodded at his men, and they physically restrained Cas, although it wasn't really necessary; he needed more assistance than restraint.
Crowley sashayed cockily toward his prisoner. "Is that a hex bag in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"
The quickly declining angel glanced down at his coat pocket. He had difficulty lifting his head again.
"Nasty little thing. It probably can't kill you, but it will drain you until you are … compliant," Crowley said. "Unless, of course, you want to save a lot of hassle and just tell me where you sent the tablet and the prophet."
Cas used all the strength he had left to look Crowley in the eyes and said, "I don't fear you."
Crowley's rage turned to excitement. He loved a challenge. "You will."
"Now, I must stay I am impressed. You're almost as tough as your girlfriend," Crowley said. "Not as much to look at, though."
"I'll never tell you where they are," Cas said.
"One out of two?" Crowley asked. Cas stared back.
"Alright." Crowley shrugged. "As much as I would enjoy keeping you strapped to this table and poking at you for centuries, I do have other matters to attend to. So, in the interest of expediting the process, I'd like to share a little story with you: A thrilling tale of intrigue and danger."
Cas looked confused.
"Piqued your interest?" Crowley asked theatrically. He pulled a vial of red liquid from his pocket and held it loosely.
"You see, what's in this vial can kill you," Crowley continued. "Don't believe me?"
"Why would I believe anything you say?" Cas asked.
"Because this time it's true!" yelled Crowley. "How's about a demonstration?"
Crowley called for a minion, who must have been on his toes with his hand on the doorknob. "Yes, sir?"
"Bring me a vampire, a shapeshifter, and … a werewolf," Crowley listed. They were there within moments, rolled in on upright tables exactly like the one Cas lay strapped to.
Crowley procured a syringe from amongst his tools; in it was more red liquid. He walked past each captive, injecting each with a small dose. First, the vampire: it blackened, and the ashes fell to the floor in Crowley's wake. Next, the shapeshifter: it shook violently, and its face shifted from one to another to another until all the faces melded together into an unrecognizable dripping mess. Lastly, the werewolf: it howled and screamed, then suddenly expired into deathly silence. Crowley grabbed a sword and sliced its chest open. "No heart, you see," he explained.
Approaching Cas with the syringe, Crowley said, "What do you think this'll do to an angel?"
"Those are abominations! I am a creation of the Lord God himself!" Cas yelled.
"Interesting theory," Crowley pondered. "You're suggesting that the potion only kills creatures who are not in God's favor. That would explain the monsters and the demons … and the humans."
"Humans?" Cas slowly connected the dots. "This is what you gave Evie, isn't it? Is she going to die?"
"No, unfortunately, humans are the only bloody things this potion won't kill," Crowley sighed. "Wait a bloody minute! Humans! It came from a human … it gives humans super powers. … That's it! You and I need to do this more often!"
"What?"
"Feel good about yourself, mate," Crowley said. "You've just saved literally hundreds of monsters' lives, but, rest assured, the two hundred I've already killed did not die in vain."
"You!" Crowley called out.
"Um, it's Derek …"
"I don't care! Bring him to Hell. Room two-oh-three. Oh, and if you muck this up …" Crowley warned.
"I won't, sir!"
Crowley left, pleased, his pesky problem solved.
Crowley straddled a rather firm, ordinary chair, elbow propped on the edge of the slat back, chin resting on his palm. He stared at his ever-silent prisoner for as long as he could stand it, which it turned out was not very long. It was an uncomfortable five seconds before he switched arms and re-situated his chin in its new palm pedestal. For now, the curled fingers of his left hand hid the thin line of annoyance spreading across his lips, but his eyes threatened to give away his true feelings. They were gleaming with impatience.
It wouldn't be long now: Impatience would become fury. Then, the fury would spread like wildfire and destroy everything in its path. It was a very thin line for Crowley. He could get at least some satisfaction from ninety nine percent of his captives. Everyone feared him. EVERYONE!
Except for Lazarus. This walking corpse. This wisp of a man, an immortal man.
From everyone else Crowley got gold: whimpering, drooling, aversion, screams, begging. The list of delights was nearly infinite. But from Lazarus all he got was a kindly gaze. It was direct, but not in a threatening way. Almost the look of a therapist: that look that said 'everything is alright, this is a safe place.' It boiled Crowley's blood. He would show this science experiment that this was most certainly not a safe place.
"So, Lazarus … may I call you Lazarus?" Crowley spoke suddenly.
A slight nod of the head and the same sickeningly serene smile from Lazarus.
"Ah ha ha haaaa!" Crowley laughed. The touch of silver on the shifter's skin only produced a small mark, barely even a burn. He beamed; he hadn't been this excited in years. Then, the shifter spit in his face. "You know, normally, that kind of behavior would infuriate me, send me flying into an uncontrollable rage, but, today? To quote the kids nowadays, 'I ain't even mad, bro.'" Crowley used his apron to wipe the spittle off his cheek.
"Sir!"
"Yes?" Crowley asked cheerily.
"Sir, I made contact with an agreeable Djinn," the blonde in the black pantsuit said. Crowley studied her with a blank face as she nervously continued. "He spoke with his Alpha. He wants to see your product. I set up a meeting for Thursday." She grinned with pride. A purse-lipped, shit-eating grin born of privilege, of conceited prissy little girls who backstab one another to get ahead in their tiny little world of country clubs and caviar. Despite all that, the little bitch did get him a meeting with the Alpha Djinn.
Speaking softly, almost in a whisper, Crowley said, "You scheduled an A-List meeting without consulting the star? Is that what you're saying?" His blank face suddenly came to life, boiling over with red hot rage. "I have the makings of a shifter potion here!" He pointed at the bound lab rat. "NOT a Djinn potion!"
He stormed toward the terrified demon, who, in life, had been an upstate New Yorker, born into a rich family, who had indeed belonged to a country club and dined on caviar, who had also stabbed her best friend in the back to have a chance with the owner's son, and who had sold her soul for the same boy and then died two years later at the age of twenty four in a car accident caused by the same drunk boy. "You don't so much as breathe – no, don't even think about breathing – without my approval! Do you know why?!" He waited three seconds for an answer. He did not get one from the shrunken husk of a little girl.
"That was not a rhetorical question!" Crowley howled.
"Because you're the king?" she whimpered, tears streaming down her face.
"Because I'm the king," Crowley said calmly, as if this rampage had never happened. The red hue left his face. "You don't schedule meetings unless I say so. Do we understand each other?"
She nodded vigorously, still crying and whimpering.
"Now, do we have a Djinn in our facility?" Crowley asked.
"What?"
"Are you deaf and stupid? Do we have a bloody Djinn?!"
"Yes, sir. Two, I think," she said cautiously.
"Bring them to me immediately," Crowley said.
"Yes, sir," she said and started to hurry out.
"Wait!"
She stopped in her tracks.
"What's your name, girl?"
"Maiden," she replied.
Crowley laughed out loud. "Maiden! Seriously?"
"My parents were hippies," she said, looking at her feet.
"Well, you've really moved up in the world, Maiden. Bump the Djinn meeting back two weeks. Send my best regards, and assure the Alpha it'll be worth the wait."
Maiden's face lit. Crowley rolled his eyes and shooed her away with the flick of his wrist.
"Once, when I was a boy in Scotland, I watched a turtle swimming in a pond," Crowley began, sounding philosophical.
"You watched a turtle swim?" Cas asked, chary. Crowley glared at him for rudely interrupting his story, gave it a few seconds to allow the menacing look to sink in, and then continued.
"This turtle swam serenely, making its own path effortlessly, until the wind began to blow. You see, the breeze rustled up a bit of a current and took the turtle with it. At first, it seemed like a good thing. The turtle went with the flow, coasting along easily whichever way the wind took him. But, then, for whatever reasons turtles have for doing anything turtles do, this turtle decided to swim against the current. He paddled as hard as his short little legs could paddle, turning this way and that as the wind shifted again and again, struggling so hard to make it anywhere. But, alas, he wore himself out – this little underdog – and he made it nowhere. He drowned in a world that had once been his livelihood, in a world in which he had been relevant. And, it was all his fault."
Crowley took a threatening step closer to Cas. Their eyes locked. Cas was afraid – now that he understood metaphor – but he tried to act as casual as possible; it was what Dean would do.
"That was a nice story," Cas remarked.
"Thank you. It was all bullshit. The point is that like this noble aquatic creature, you carry a heavy burden, and you choose to swim against the current. You've been fighting, clawing, struggling so hard for so long … isn't it time to turn 'round and ride the current?"
"If I am the turtle, and you are the current, the answer is 'no.' I will not ride your current!"
"Now, that just sounds dirty," Crowley said. "Well, you can't say I didn't give you a chance." He again closed the distance between the two of them; they were now uncomfortably close, close enough to smell each other's breath, to feel the heat and the sweat on each other's skin. "Take your last breaths, my old friend. You're about to drown in the wake of my new world."
Crowley sat in a luxuriously soft, black leather armchair in his office, sipping Craig, savoring the flavors he loved so dearly. Good Scotch was one of the only comforts he had left. Torture was always a pick-me-up, but sometimes all he wanted was a few moments of peace – no one pestering him about meetings, shortages, deals, numbers, "Sire" this and "Your Majesty" that.
He closed his eyes and took another mouth-watering sip. Everything was so blasé now. The Apocalypse … now, that was fun! Throwing punches at the Winchesters, or for them, whichever suited his mood at the time; working with Cas or against him. There was action, excitement. He supposed his recent scientific breakthroughs were exciting, as were the possibilities for the future (or lack thereof) for humanity, but what was the point without frenemies? He didn't really want to kill Cas. He supposed that was why he made up that crap story about the turtle to try and intimidate Cas into playing along.
"Really, what the bloody Hell was that?" he mused to himself.
Knock. Knock.
Maiden strode into the room without waiting to be acknowledged.
"You know, Maiden, we're going to have to practice knocking. Generally, when you knock, you wait for a response before coming in," Crowley said, annoyed.
"Oh! Sorry! I'm sorry!" Maiden hurried outside, closing the door.
Knock. Knock.
Crowley sighed and downed the rest of his drink. He was writing me-time on his schedule in permanent marker.
Knock. Knock.
"Yes, Maiden?!"
Maiden pushed the door open more slowly the second time, almost with a reverence. Her eyes were direct, but there was an air of uncertainty about her. Her self-esteem had been shaken. Good.
"Sir, your meeting is in fifteen minutes," she said. To an eavesdropper her voice would have sounded perfectly normal, but Crowley could hear the wavering confidence, fluctuation between the present and memories of forced childhood perfection – all adding up to a lovely dissonance. Just as good as Berlioz or Debussy, in Crowley's opinion.
"Ah, yes, of course," Crowley said, pleasantly. "Nothing has changed, has it?"
"No, sir."
"Excellent. Please wait outside."
As soon as Maiden closed the door, he approached the painting of the gnarled and bloody succubus standing amongst various defiled corpses. She was naked, of course, and gripped the disembodied head of one of the men she had presumably just had disgusting, stomach-churning sex with. Crowley had had this one specially commissioned for his office – at first, just to make an impression, but it had really grown on him. Sometimes he stared at her and felt mesmerized; it was a deeply disturbing painting and what was behind it was even better.
He waved his fingers and the painting slid aside, revealing a safe, warded with symbols even the Winchesters had probably never seen before. He waved his fingers again, and it opened. Inside was a rack of potions. He grabbed two blue ones, then closed the safe and replaced the painting.
Opening his office door, he said to Maiden and the two other demons waiting outside, "Bring the lab rat. We're off to fabulous New Jersey."
"That went well!" Maiden exclaimed.
"Yes, it did, Maiden," Crowley replied.
"We've got the Djinn on our side, now there's just the vampires, the werewolves, the shapeshifters, the …" Maiden's excited rambling trailed off into a scared silence when she met Crowley's warning gaze. She swallowed nervously. "First step!"
They continued walking through the halls of Hell. Maiden held a leather appointment book, on which she crossed through the Djinn appointment. "The rest of your afternoon looks like …"
"Clear it," Crowley said tersely.
"Uh … but sir …"
"I said 'clear it.' I'm going to see the angel."
Maiden had stopped walking, but Crowley continued to a T junction. "What should I tell your subjects?"
"Tell them to try again tomorrow. If they're lucky, I may grace them with my presence," Crowley said, with an arrogance he truly felt for the first time in a long time, before taking a right turn and heading out of sight.
Crowley circled the unconscious Castiel like a hyena, positioning himself for the most advantageous strike. Ice water in the face? Hot poker on the chest? Electrical wires … anywhere? No. He could do better than that. Crowley cleared his throat and, placing his hands on his knees, squatted down to ear level: his lips would just graze the flesh of Cas' earlobe when he spoke.
In Evie's voice, Crowley whispered, "Cas."
Cas' eyes flew open. Red and bloodshot, they turned to see Crowley grinning sinisterly. "Give us a kiss, big boy."
"I'll kill you with my bare hands, Crowley!" Cas screamed, sweat and spit flying from his body as he struggled against his restraints.
Crowley laughed heartily. "You're right. That wasn't very nice," he said when he'd caught his breath.
Cas panted, furious, like a caged animal. "You will die, you son of a bitch!"
"All of us in our own time, mate," Crowley said. "Yours, I think, sooner than mine. Unless, of course, you're willing to change with the times."
"I will never work with you again!"
"Oh, alright, I apologize for that nasty joke," Crowley said, waving his cruelty off with a flick of his hand. "But, friends forgive and forget, right?"
"I will never forgive you, nor will I forget what you've done," Cas said gravely.
"Nor will I forget what you've done, friend," Crowley said. The two stared in silence, opposite but also equal in many ways. It was Crowley who finally broke the standoff.
"Castiel, Castiel, Castiel," he sighed. He began to circle the table, again putting up the façade of arrogance so his old frenemy wouldn't see his doubt. "You always have to be difficult. I suppose that's what makes you the lovable, predictable, boring, ass butt that you are."
"Ass butt? That's mine," Cas said.
"Yes, I heard about it. Rather cute. Clever, for you."
"You can't even come up with your own insults, anymore"? Cas asked, feeling sharp-tongued now that he was fairly certain he wasn't leaving Hell alive.
"Oh, was that one not good enough for the sheep that would be God?" Crowley asked.
"You tongue grows dull. Rowena could do better." As soon as he said it, Cas regretted it.
Crowley's mood took a sharp and rather immediate turn from playful and slightly pissed off to homicidal. "Don't you ever mention that whore's name!" Crowley emphasized every word with a punch – and he continued punching and screaming long after he ceased making intelligible sounds. When he could no longer properly land punches due to the blood pouring from Cas' damaged face, Crowley switched to an angel blade and began slicing and dicing.
"Say her name again!" Crowley threatened.
"Evie," Cas whispered desperately, half conscious, half something else. He passed out.
"I should cut your tongue out," Crowley said maliciously. "You'll just grow the bloody thing back. And, I'm the monster?"
He threw the angel blade onto the floor in a huff, then thought better of it. 'I'll take his grace now,' he thought. 'He missed his chance to play nice.' Crowley moved to get the blade and a vial.
Just then Maiden burst into the room. Crowley almost flew off the handle … until he saw the panic in her face. "What is it?"
"There's someone here!" Maiden said panicked.
Taking her meaning at once, Crowley sniffed at the air. "Two someones," he said, intrigued. "One absurdly tall, the other trigger happy. The tall one is moody, whiny; the other one has a righteous one-track mind. Really, they're both dicks."
"You can smell that?" Maiden asked, horrified by her master's omnipotence.
"No, you dumb twit!" He snapped. "It's the Winchesters! They're here for him. Who else would be stupid enough to break into Hell?"
"How do you know they're both here?"
"Because where Squirrel goes Moose follows," Crowley said, leaving the angel to snooze dreamlessly.
Crowley marched through his halls, a man on a mission. Find those Winchesters – those bloody, pain in the ass Winchesters. He charged forward, taking turn after turn, masking his desperation with intent. Maiden and a small posse trailed behind, trying to keep up but not step on the boss' heels.
He had no idea where they were …. But, he knew where they were going. Surely, those idiots he left to guard Castiel could handle Moose and Squirrel.
He stopped in his tracks, and Maiden ran face first into his shoulders. She didn't even have enough time to put her hands up.
Crowley turned, slowly, and saw the most potent example of the incompetence problem that had plagued his kingdom as of late: The two idiots were there. In the posse. Hunting for the intruders. Not guarding the angel as he had instructed.
Crowley's rage had always burned hot, even in his human childhood, but this time … this was the white hot fire of a super nova, burning at a temperature that surpassed heat and became cold again. He turned his icy glare on idiot number one, who froze in a terror so complete that time, for him, seemed to stop altogether. Smoked billowed from his mouth as Crowley psychically squeeze the last bits of life juice from every pour. He was dead before his lifeless body hit the floor.
Idiot number two foolishly tried to tuck tail and run, as if he had somewhere to run. He managed a mouse squeak of a scream before he turned to vapors.
"Get back to the angel. NOW!" Crowley commanded Maiden. "If you fail me, this won't even compare to the fun I'm going to have with you."
"CROWLEY!"
Squirrel. Always the brazen one.
"Go," Crowley instructed Maiden. "Find the tall one."
Crowley and the two remaining demons followed Dean's voice to the dungeons.
Once in the dungeon, Crowley really could smell Dean. Well, more sense than literal smell.
"Dean," Crowley said. "Why the hurry to leave? You're a guest in my kingdom. Please, stay a while."
The fear on Dean's face pleased him. This annoying interruption was making out to be a promising opportunity.
"I actually just came to, uh, bring you something," Dean said.
"A gift? Well, it must be special for you to hand-deliver it," Crowley said, honestly intrigued.
"Oh, it is," Dean assured. "It's right through that door." Dean pointed behind Crowley to the secret backdoor. A distrustful scowl covered his face as he inspected the area Dean had indicated. He sniffed. If it were anyone else but Dean Winchester, Crowley would kill him where he stood. He didn't like being lied to, but he didn't think Dean was lying.
"I detect vampire with a hint of dead dog," Crowley said.
"That's the door to Purgatory, and guess who's waiting on the other side?" Dean teased.
Crowley didn't like being lied to, but he liked being teased even less.
"I spent the better part of a year elbow deep in monster filth, working with angels to find Purgatory, and you expect me to believe that the door was just a pleasant stroll through my dungeon the whole time?!" Crowley's rage intensified with each word. "How did you get in, anyway? Only a coyote or an alpha could have got you to Purgatory. I've put the coyotes out of business, and I killed all the alphas but one. Ah. So … you managed to get Daddy Vampire on Team Winchester," Crowley said. "And, your idiotic plan is … what? Lure me to my untimely death? Dean, I'm hurt."
Dean's grin faltered. Crowley's arrogance grew.
"No worries, mate," Crowley produced a toothy smile. "You'll have eternity to make it up to me."
Crowley patted his pockets as if he was missing something. "Oh, pardon me a moment, won't you?" He disappeared and reappeared seconds later just behind Dean. He tapped the confused human on the shoulder for dramatic effect, which he loved ever so much. He had always loved the theatre. Dean spun on his heels.
Crowley held a glass vial containing a light blue liquid in front of Dean's face.
"Are you about to make a feminine hygiene commercial?" Dean asked, proud of his cleverness.
"Ew, gross. … It's my very own anti-vampire magic bomb," Crowley said, proud of his cleverness.
Dean was quiet as a church mouse, but his silence spoke volumes to the king.
"After you, Squirrel," Crowley said.
Crowley sent in one of the minions first. The one he had threatened to filet and eat with cabbage. He assumed the Alpha Vamp would do something similar. A shame that the vampire would have all the fun with that one. What fun, really, though? His death would be quick and wasteful; dead within seconds from a predictable wound to the throat, the rest of the body squandered. Pity.
The filet tripped through the wall and landed on the ancient stone at Crowley's feet. The arm he used to catch his fall turned to black smoke but remained in the semi-solid shape of an arm long enough for him to eye it, utter a childlike cry, and use it to reach for his king. Crowley stepped backward slightly as the enchantment finally failed completely and the demon fell into an ashy heap, adding to the infinite layers of filth on the floor.
Crowley brushed absently at his pant leg. "Remind me to get a cleaning lady down here. One of those sexy French ones," he said to the remaining minion.
He glanced at his watch. Right about now, they would all be wondering if he'd even show up. He dallied a bit longer, then muttered searched his pockets for the potion that would allow him to pass into Purgatory. He downed it, winced a little at the awful taste, then fished another from the same pocket and drank that one, too. Double the magic couldn't hurt. He wasn't about to end up like the sorry fool before him. Muttering the incantation under his breath, he stepped through the mess that had been demon.
With one finger he poked at the wall. It rippled.
"How do I look?" he asked his last remaining minion.
"… Duh … oh …. Muh …" the demon stuttered. He trembled in fear.
Crowley grinned. "That good?"
He stepped right into the brick wall. At first it stretched against his face with elasticity, then it gave way with a puff, as it degraded into dust. Dreary light filled his eyes – fuller and yet still duller than the yellow glow of torchlight that lit Hell's dungeons.
Imbued with power, even in Purgatory, the king appeared precisely where he wanted: right behind the big, bald buffoon. He stared at the back of the Alpha's neck for a few seconds, deciding whether to strike now or play with his food, when the Alpha turned suddenly to face him. Crowley stared into a shark mouth.
"Comburet lamia!" Crowley recited, then he looked into the Alpha's eyes. They were concerned. Crowley sneered. "Only one part left to the spell, but I'm sure you know that."
"New magic," the Alpha said.
"New?" Crowley laughed. "This spell is six hundred years old!"
"Yes, but you forget how old I am," the Alpha said.
"And, how old is that?" Crowley continued the conversation, while taking a stroll. He hadn't missed the audience: a dozen vampires and, of course, a frightened Squirrel. Had it been a showdown between the two of them, monster to monster, Crowley would have struck first, at least gotten the goliath back to Hell. But, there was a captive audience to please. And, it was so much more fun this way.
"I'm as least as old as the dark," the Alpha said, eerily, as if he were recalling fond memories of creeping in the night, ruthlessly hunting frightened, skittering things. 'Ah, but I creep in the night, too,' Crowley thought.
"Ha! Do you prefer one-upping with tall tales or would you rather jump straight to the point and take out the rulers?" Crowley asked.
"Yes, I've heard you once had some shortcomings, but not anymore," the Alpha toyed. "Tell me, is three inches for one soul the usual rate or was that a special deal for the future king?" His disdain dripped off the last word.
This vampire was too confident, and it pissed Crowley off. Not in the same way that Dean's arrogance did. Crowley knew he could squash the brothers if he wanted, but like a cat playing with a mouse, it was more fun to bat at the lower creature and let it think it had escaped. With the Alpha, he wasn't entirely certain who was the cat and who was the mouse.
"All I have to do is drop this bomb, you filthy bloodsucker, and you and all your bodyguards go up in flames," Crowley threatened.
"Do you really think that will work on me?" the Alpha laughed.
"On you, maybe not, but them … I'm certain of it," Crowley said and nonchalantly dropped the vial on the ground. He wasn't certain. He was certain of the magic, but not of the distance, and not if it would work on the Alpha. But, all cards were on the table now. Crowley crushed the vial with his foot, releasing the blue fire from its captivity. A shockwave exploded outward and seeped into the very pores of the vampires.
Crowley smiled with glee as the Alpha's small army burned from the inside out. They sizzled; they steamed; they stank. The air filled with a fetid fetor.
Even the Alpha burned and howled with rage. The icing on the cake.
He saw Dean run. He could've stopped him, but there was no point. The human had no way out of Purgatory; though, if any human could find a way, it was Dean Winchester. Good. They could play another day. But today Crowley had another playmate. Just another day in the life of the king. And it was good to be the king.