Chapter 14 - The Bigger They Are...

Dean was getting worse.

So much worse.

Any illusion of control Crowley might've had over the Knight was shattered in the week following Dean's slaughter of his former comrades; Dean was absent far more than he was present, and Crowley found him entering the compound at all manner of late hours, covered in blood and with a look of dark satisfaction that made Crowley's stomach turn, as it seemed so foreign on the once-human's face.

He would ask Dean where he had been, what he had done. He never received any answers. The best he got was Dean shrugging and saying, "Just taking care of a few things." More often than not, the new demon just ignored him completely, heading to his room without a second glance at him. Crowley only found out about his activities from Veronica's visions. To put it mildly, Dean's tastes had expanded far beyond just killing demons.

Dean had broken his leash, and Crowley didn't have the slightest idea how to get it back around the Winchester's neck. The fact that he was bunking down with a Knight of Hell who was incredibly volatile and apparently held very little interest in obeying him had him constantly on edge. He was distracted, paranoid as all hell and essentially leaving Crowley with the desire to crawl out of his stolen skin.

What would be the tipping point, hmm? What would make Dean decide that Crowley was more trouble than he was worth? And more importantly, when? Every second he spent around the other demon, he felt as though he was treading through a mine field. What would set Dean off? One move, one jab with the First Blade, and he was gone. Dead. Finished.

He'd unleashed a beast upon the world unwittingly, and worst of all, he had no way to put him down – Dean was invincible, after all, at least at present. Crowley was sure there were weapons out there capable of dispatching Dean, but none were readily available to him, and chances were, by the time he managed to track one of them down, it would already be far too late.

When Crowley had first brought the newly demonized hunter home with him and exposed him to his subjects, he had told them that Dean was the newest ace up his sleeve, a bomb ready to go off, and Crowley held the detonator. It was a delicious irony. The Righteous Man himself, turned into an unbeatable weapon of mass destruction for the very forces he'd been fighting against his whole life.

But in reality, Crowley had been lying to both his minions and himself. All he had really wanted was a companion. A partner. A friend. He'd ended up with a monster that was beyond his control.

His entire world could be ripped from him any moment, and needless to say, he felt like the threads of his sanity were fraying rather quickly. Crowley had clawed and scraped his way back to the throne, worked so hard to attempt to restore his kingdom to its former glory, and now Dean bloody Winchester had the power to rip it all to shreds with one swipe of that damn jaw bone.

He was losing his grip on things. He felt unsure of himself, now more so than ever. He was drinking more, actually with the intent to blur his thoughts rather than just to have the crisp flavor of Craig in his mouth. Unfortunately, given his species, he had to drink his way through several gallons to get himself even remotely buzzed.

Worst of all, the cravings were returning.

Not that they hadn't been there the entire time – but they were stronger now. Not only because of his constant state of subdued panic, but Veronica's presence as well. Having that supply of human blood always so near, it was quite the temptation.

He needed an escape, and he knew that particular red liquid was the perfect way out of his current reality.

But he wouldn't give in.

He couldn't.

Something was wrong with Crowley.

Granted, Ronnie had only known him for a little over two weeks, but even with her limited experience with the demon, she could see that something was up with him. Ever since Dean had murdered the hunters in Illinois, he'd been off. Dean was out of control, that much was made clear by the horrific visions she was having of Dean every night. She could only assume that was the cause of Crowley's demeanor change, which meant that the demon truly hadn't wanted Dean to kill those hunters.

He was distracted. Cagey, almost. Especially around her, though she couldn't begin to wonder why. She was the only person he interacted with who wasn't a demon, so for him to seem practically nervous around her was puzzling. Still, his visits to her when he collected her visions were becoming longer, and their conversations sometimes extended for hours at a time. There was a whole world and history of supernatural lore that she was trying to catch up on, and Crowley never seemed to have any issue explaining things to her.

Eventually he gave her a series of books – several large stacks of them, actually.

"Road so far, bla bla bla. Let's call it a prequel to your current reality. Tell me when you're done with those, and I'll send a laptop up so you can read the last forty-four unpublished books in the series."

"These look like campy horror novels," she'd argued, looking at the cover of the first one, The Family Business, with an arched eyebrow.

"Well, given the fact that your life has recently become a campy horror novel, I'd say it's worth the read, wouldn't you?"

She couldn't very well argue with that.

So, she began reading, and soon she realized that it was the Winchesters' story from 2005 on... and it was one hell of a story, without a doubt. The Dean she found between the pages of Carver Edlund's novels didn't jive with the demon she was currently living with (and trying desperately to avoid). No, the Dean in the Supernatural series was a hero. Brave and kind, wanting nothing more than to keep people and safe, hunt monsters, and protect his younger brother.

Oh, how things had changed.

Being deprived of much else to do, she was tearing through the relatively short books with speed. Within a few days' time, she was already onto the twenty third book, In My Time of Dying. She was nearly finished with the book when a knock came at her door. It was relatively late at night. She glanced at the grandfather clock near her bed. It was nearly three in the morning.

"Come in," she called, setting In My Time of Dying down on the coffee table. She sat up. Her door opened, revealing Crowley's familiar figure, which was shrouded in the darkness of the hallway.

"Hello, darling," he greeted. "Busy?"

She gave him a withering look. "Am I ever?"

"Does that mean I can come in?"

"If I said no, would it stop you?"

"Fair point," Crowley acknowledged. He entered the room, stepping into the light and closing the door behind him. "You're up late."

"So are you."

"I don't sleep," Crowley replied, leaning against the wall. He nodded at the open book sitting on the coffee table. "Enjoying yourself?"

"The writing's kind of weak. Carver Edlund's no Stephen King. But the premise, the characters… the books aren't too bad," Ronnie said. "I'm still wondering where you come in."

"If I'm not mistaken, my first appearance is in Time is On My Side. You've got a ways to go before that, unfortunately."

"Carver Edlund, the guy who wrote these… he was a prophet, wasn't he? The prophet that came before me?"

"The prophet before the prophet before you, actually. He presumably died sometime in 2010," Crowley answered.

"So who's recorded everything that's happened since then? The prophet in between us?"

"I'm afraid Kevin wasn't gifted with Winchester vision. More of a reader, less of a writer," Crowley informed her.

"You knew him, then?"

"Intimately," Crowley said, not missing a beat. A smirk ghosted over his lips. "Unfortunately, Kevin and I didn't have as functional a working relationship as the two of us. He liked to play hard to get."

"I don't even know if I want you to elaborate on that statement," Ronnie said, pulling the quilt she was currently covered in tighter around herself.

"Suffice it to say, deciding to come with me off your own volition was a wise choice," Crowley told her.

"I guess Kevin wasn't content to be your slave?"

"Oh, you're not my slave, Veronica. I much prefer the term 'indentured servant'."

"Yeah, except indentured servants get to be free once they've paid their dues. I'm not sensing anything that happy in my future," Ronnie said dismally, not bothering to keep the accusation out of her voice.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there's only one way out of being a prophet, and that's in a body bag."

"I figured that much out for myself, thanks," Ronnie replied tersely.

"Musn't snivel, Veronica. Your fate might not be the sunniest in the world, but you could still make the most of it. You should be grateful that I was the one who found you, rather than Castiel and Samantha."

"And why should I be grateful that the King of Hell found me instead of the good guys?"

"Because the 'good guys' would use you up until there wasn't a thing left. Until you were six feet under, or worse. And trust me, love, it can get far, far worse. Just ask dear old Kevin." Crowley snorted. "Oh, wait. You can't. He's dead."

Ronnie sighed, trying to look unaffected, though she did feel a thrill of worry over what had happened to her predecessor. "There's no use arguing over it. Now are you going to tell me why you randomly showed up at my door in the middle of the night, or are you going to keep me guessing?"

Crowley didn't offer any response. He sank down into one of the heavily stuffed armchairs that sat opposite her. He crossed his legs, drumming his fingers on the side of his shoe. "Drink?" he asked at length.

"I'm not much of a drinker," she said. "And you didn't answer my question."

"You didn't answer mine." Crowley snapped his fingers. A bottle of amber liquid appeared on the table next to her book, alongside two tumblers. "Also, I don't buy for a second that you don't drink. I'm sure you need something to soften that PTSD, and you don't strike me as the type to go to therapy, or get a prescription for some kind of smiley pill, so…" Crowley grabbed the bottle, which was already open and waiting to be poured.

"I don't have PTSD," Ronnie replied stiffly. "And I'm a chaplain, remember?"

"I can say with upmost certainty that God doesn't care if you have a glass of the good stuff." Crowley filled one of the glasses with three fingers of what she determined to be scotch, then filled the other with half as much.

"With certainty, huh?"

"God doesn't care about anything, let alone what you kill your liver with," Crowley responded.

"I'm inclined to disagree."

"Of course you are."

Ronnie frowned. "In moderation, there's nothing inherently wrong with a drink now and then. Problem is, most people are bad at saying no to something that makes them feel good."

"You're preaching to the choir," Crowley muttered. He offered her the glass with the smaller amount of scotch. "Come on. Indulge. A little sin's good for the soul."

"Says the guy with no soul," she countered.

"Don't pretend you don't want to fog things up a bit, blur the memories. Even for a little while."

His eyes sparkled in the low light of her bedroom, setting off the green of his irises. Crowley was in his element, here. He was a demon, after all. Temptation was his purpose, his stock and trade. She took the glass from him, glaring at him all the while.

"You're a bastard, you know that?"

He grinned at her. "Oh, believe me, I know." He leaned back, picking up his own glass and promptly draining over half of it.

Ronnie sipped at her own drink tentatively. She grimaced at the taste, the uncomfortable burn in her throat. "Wow. Um. That's…" She tried not to gag. "What is this?"

"Glenncraig. Aged thirty years. My personal brand. Been drinking it since I was just a lad," he told her. "Why the face? The flavor's smooth, crisp, with just the faintest aftertaste of tobacco. It's the perfect pick-me-up."

"If you say so." Ronnie sat the glass back down. "And lad? I thought you were British, not Scottish."

"Packaging is British. Me? I was of Gaelic heritage, yes."

"When you were human."

"Mhmm."

"What were you like?" she asked with a slight tilt of her head.

"Pardon?"

"As a human," she clarified.

He took so long to respond that she began to wonder if he was going to answer her at all. Eventually, after another sip of his scotch, he said, "Pathetic. I was pathetic."

"Don't overwhelm me with the details."

"Well, the whole story is very long, sordid, bloody, and needlessly complicated. The hero is dashing and compelling, of course, but still, it's a tale that's better left untold."

"Alright, tell me a different one, then."

"Looking for a bed time story, Veronica?"

"Ronnie," she corrected him. "And I want to know what's been up with you lately."

"What's been up with me?" Crowley repeated with an arched eyebrow. "Nothing's been up with me. I'm peachy."

"We both know that's a lie," Ronnie replied flatly.

"Do we?" he countered, seeming to grow serious. "I could convince you of even the most ridiculous falsehood if I wanted to. Lucifer may have been the Prince of Lies, but I'm the King of them. Don't make the mistake of thinking you can see through me, because you can't. Let me make that abundantly clear."

Ronnie just looked at him. "You done?" Crowley made an irritated face. Before he could retort, she continued with, "It's Dean, isn't it? You're worried."

"Dean's fine," Crowley snapped.

"I see him at night. You know I do. I've had front row tickets to everything he's been doing, and I know none of the stuff he's done since he killed those hunters has been on your orders. You're losing control of him, and that scares the crap out of you."

"Nothing scares me," Crowley stated, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Only people who are stupid or suicidal are fearless, Crowley. You're definitely not stupid, and I don't think you're suicidal. So that means you're afraid. You should be. I'm terrified of Dean, of what he's capable of. Of what he might do."

"I haven't-" Crowley broke off, pinning his tongue between his teeth as he seemed to weigh his next words carefully. "If Dean gets out of hand, I'll deal with him. You needn't worry your little head about it," he said slowly, carefully.

"He's already out of control. It's only a matter of time before he turns around and bites you-"

"You think I don't know that!?" the demon exclaimed, suddenly up and out of his chair. Ronnie watched as the King began pacing agitatedly in front of her. "He won't listen to a word I say. Hell forbid that after all I've done for him, I expect a modicum of respect, of loyalty. Who went to him when he was out in the cold and on his own, hmm? Who took him under his wing when he most needed it? ME. I got him that Mark, I gave him direction, a – a purpose! And when he died, I pulled him back. I gave him a chance at a new life, a better one."

"You call being a demon a better life?" Ronnie interrupted.

"It was better for me!" Crowley burst out.

Ronnie stared at Crowley. How was she supposed to respond to that? To an admission - albeit a subtle one - that whatever life Crowley had lived as a human had somehow been worse than literal Hell.

"Being human is messy, needy, and above all, it is endlessly painful. I gave him an escape from that. And all I wanted in return was a companion. Someone to ride off into the sunset with. Is that so wrong?"

"You wanted someone to care," she surmised.

Crowley stilled, his back to her. "Yes," he said at length. "I suppose I did."

"You really think erasing Dean's humanity was the best way to go about that?"

"I didn't think he would lose everything in the change! Cain was different, so I thought perhaps Dean would be as well. He didn't go to Hell, not recently, anyway. He didn't have the humanity carved out of him, not like the others. I thought he would still be Dean."

"So basically, it seemed like a good idea at the time?"

Crowley turned to her, frustrated. "If you're going to give me some holier-than-thou speech, you can save it."

"I'm not going to give you a speech. I'm not going to waste my time telling you things that you already know. But I am going to say this: I'm seeing visions of you for a reason."

"What are you playing at?"

"I'm saying that God cares about what's happening right now. Maybe He's got a plan in the works. And if I'm seeing visions of you specifically, that can only mean you're a part of it."

Crowley stared at her for a few tense seconds, his expression inscrutable. "You really think He gives a damn, don't you?" he asked quietly.

"I don't think, I know. That's what faith is."

"Faith," Crowley mused. "Over the past few centuries, I've thought a lot about faith. About God. About what it all means. I'm very old and very smart, a combination that generally leads to an unintentional philosopher of sorts... and I've discovered a few things about faith."

Ronnie rose to her feet. She abandoned the quilt she was swaddled in, and she approached him, possessed by the sudden urge to be near him. When only a foot separated them, Crowley backed away, a dim kind of panic in his eyes. He swallowed, licking his lips. There it was. That nervousness. It was only when she got close, but why?

"And?" she asked softly, eyes not leaving his.

Crowley swallowed again, his nostrils flaring. "Faith is a farce. There's no such thing." He seemed transfixed on the exposed skin of her neck. "What people have, it's not faith in God." He flicked his eyes back to hers with effort. "It's fear of Hell."

"I don't fear Hell."

"Everyone fears Hell," he argued. "Every human that's ever drawn breath fears Hell."

"Instead of fear of Hell, I have hope for Heaven. I've been working my whole life to get up top; why worry about ending up on the down escalator?"

Crowley let out a harsh bark of a laugh. "Do you even understand how easily I could pull that eternal paradise out from under you? If I wanted your soul, I could take it, and no one would lift a finger to stop me. Not God, not any of His angels. No one."

"I don't believe that," she said simply.

Crowley grabbed her by the shoulders, a disconcerting look in his gaze, almost as if he was... hungry? He pulled her closer, though it seemed that it pained him to do so. "Do I have to prove it to you?" he asked lowly. "I could drag your soul down to Hell and roast it on a spit for the rest of eternity if I wanted to. I could peel away every layer of you until there's nothing left. And you know what? No one could stop me."

Although everything about Crowley's current demeanor was threatening, she didn't find herself feeling afraid.

There was something wrong with the King; she'd seen how other demons acted. Seen how Dean acted. And Crowley's behavior did not fall in line with that, with a large majority of what a demon should be. Cain had said that Crowley had a flicker of a soul inside of him, because of some attempted curing. Just what had the Winchesters done to him? Had they reignited some kind of spark of humanity in him? Was that why he was so different from the rest of his kind?

"Do you want to?" she asked abruptly.

"Want to what?"

"Take my soul to Hell."

Crowley's face was impassive for a moment, and then he scowled. "No." He released her, backing away and turning so he wasn't facing her. "You're too valuable to waste. Precious cargo and all that."

She could see his composure slowly returning, his shoulders losing some of their tense draw. "Right." Ronnie knew that if she wanted any final honesty out of Crowley, she needed to press him now before he either left or regained the full extent of his iron clad self-control.

"Can you cure a demon?"

Crowley whirled on her in an instant. "Excuse me?"

"Curing a demon-"

"Where did you hear that?" Crowley demanded.

"In my visions. I heard Cain mention it in the visions I had before you kidnapped me."

"Why are you asking?" Crowley asked sharply.

"I'm, uh. Just curious."

"No," Crowley said tightly. "There's no curing a sickness that deep."

With that, the demon went to the door. He slipped out, slamming it behind him, leaving Veronica alone with a barely touched bottle of Glenncraig.

Crowley broke.

He stood behind his desk, staring at the leather bag that waited for him there.

It was just a pick-me-up. A one-time thing. He wasn't about to go and get himself addicted again.

But that's the very problem, isn't it? You already are an addict. A sober junkie is still a junkie. You know it's never going to be just one.

He closed his eyes, shoving back the traitorous thoughts. He wasn't a junkie. He was a king, THE king. He could control himself. He was strong enough, now. He had accepted the burden of his humanity, and he had learned to cope with it. He'd adjusted – no, he'd adapted. That was the whole reason he had been able to survive as long as he had. When circumstances turned less than favorable, he was able to change accordingly.

He wouldn't let the blood destroy him again. It was just a short escape. If it steadied him, if it helped him to see straight, if only for a short time, then why should he refuse it?

One little shot. That was all.

Crowley slid off his overcoat, placing it on the back of his chair. His suit coat followed after it, leaving him in his shirt sleeves. He sank down into his leather chair. He loosened his tie, sliding it out of his collar and placing it on his desk. He laid a hand on the bag on the surface of his desk, and for a long moment, he just looked at it.

He felt like he was standing on the edge of the cliff. This was the drug that had caused him to almost lose his kingdom. Lose everything. Reduced him to such a pathetic mess that he'd been forced to go to the damn Winchesters for help. He'd nearly drowned in the red tide before. He played a dangerous game, flirting with his blasted humanity.

But part of him knew it was already too late. Due to his heightened demonic senses, he could smell it, the sweet, heady, iron scent of it. He opened the bag with hands that were trembling with need. He pulled out one of the blood bags he'd stolen from Reno General, laying it out on the table. He then removed the pack of syringes.

He was only going to use one.

Crowley licked his lips.

He filled them all.

He hated this, truly. Hated that he ached for the rush of humanity, of emotion – for the feeling of that tiny flame inside of him battling bravely against the tempest of his demonic nature, if only for a moment. It was indescribable. And the more stolen blood that disappeared into his veins, the brighter and hotter that flame grew.

During his binge in the spring, he'd been approaching bon-fire levels, with the amount he was throwing down, and it had been blissful. Painful, but blissful. He must've had a masochistic side to himself, because human blood was not a drug that brought only pleasure. No, there was an agony in emotion, in feelings, more specifically in regret.

Three centuries of sin was no trouble for a demon. For someone with a soul, with a conscience, with a metaphorical heart? It was Hell. And he would know. But still, it was a sweet torture… an undeniably addictive one.

He held up the first of the syringes, reflecting like a ruby in the dim light of his study. His vessel's heart was beating irregularly fast. His breaths were shallow and quick. It had been a long time. So long. He'd fallen off the wagon just once after his detox at the bunker, and it had been a brief slip. A brief slip, just like this was only going to be a brief slip.

Crowley positioned the needle at his wrist. He swallowed.

Time to jump off the cliff, he supposed.

He depressed the plunger.