Chapter 51: Whispers in the Dark
A/N: Thank you to FreedomXJustice, Insert Name Here, Mummabro, ofmooseandmen, BranchSuper, SPN Mum, twolittlewords, Guest, k3vin20, spunkynuts, and fidefortitude for their reviews!
This chapter... technically, I could leave this chapter out completely, but for the sake of Mooseley development and the fact that it will make the transition into the next part of the story smoother, I'm going to throw it in. Hopefully it turned out alright!
Fergus seated himself at the bar in the tavern, waiting for the barkeep, Aodh, to notice him in the throng of men inside. The pale light of the quickly fading sun streamed through the windows, casting an eerie glow on the dusty wooden fixtures inside of the bar. Fergus tapped his knuckles on the bar top, impatient for a glass of Craig. It had been a long day. Too long.
"Oi, Aodh, any day now," he shouted over the clamor in the bar. The bartender glared at him, but he slammed down a tankard in front of him.
"Craig?" he asked gruffly. Aodh had run the tavern in Canisbay since Fergus was born, and he was fairly sure he'd never heard more than three words at a time out of him.
"Obviously."
The barkeep went to the cabinet and grabbed a decanter of the aforementioned alcohol, returning after only a moment. However, Fergus was distracted when he caught sight of someone on the other end of the room, standing against the wall almost nervously. It was a woman - something that wasn't often seen at this time of night in the tavern. She was young, probably a five or six years junior to him.
Really, she was beautiful. Thick brown hair cascaded over slender shoulders. She was tall and slim, and she had a striking figure, even though she looked ready to run screaming from the room. She kept her eyes downcast, and he found that he wanted to get closer, because he wanted to know what color her eyes were.
He left a quid on the bartop, paying for his yet to be poured drink, and made his way over to the mysterious woman. Canisbay wasn't a large town, by any means, and he knew almost all of the faces around here. He'd never seen this woman before, however.
"You look a bit lost," he commented, sidling up to her. Her eyes flicked up to his. Ah. They were gray, with hints of blue in them. He liked how they looked in the light.
"I'm looking for someone."
"Perhaps I could help," he offered amicably. She eyed him warily, and he realized his error. "Forgive me, I forgot to introduce myself." He extended his hand to her, and she allowed him to take her small hand in his and give it a gentle shake. "Fergus Roderick MacLeod."
"Vida Dunn," she greeted him. "It's a pleasure."
"The pleasure is all mine," he said, reluctantly releasing her hand. "Back to my earlier statement..."
"My father," she sighed. "My mother said he was here, but I can't seem to find him."
"And your father is...?
"Angus Dunn. I doubt you've heard of him - we just arrived in Canisbay a few days ago," she told him. "His brother, my uncle, passed away a few weeks ago, which leaves the family shop to us."
"Your father wouldn't be Armstrong's brother, would he? The blacksmith?"
"The very same."
So, she would be staying for awhile... and the blacksmith shop was just a stone's throw away from his own store. Even better news. Perhaps this day could be salvaged yet. "So, you haven't seen any sign of him here yet?"
"Not one."
"Well..." He flicked his eyes to the window. "The sun's going down fast. It wouldn't do for a lady such as yourself to be out at this time of night. Would it be too troublesome for me to escort you home?"
"I am perfectly capable of walking myself, Mr. MacLeod," she answered, giving him a dry look. He smiled at her in response.
"Okay, you caught me... perhaps I just wanted the pleasure of your company a bit longer," he said. She blushed.
"Well... I..."
"Feel free to reject me," Fergus assured her, giving her a lofty grin. "Though in my own favor, I have to say I'm quite good at walking and talking at the same time. I would make a wonderful companion."
She rolled her eyes, but she also smiled at him, and oh, he liked her smile. "I suppose I wouldn't mind."
"I'm very happy to hear that." He gestured towards the door. "Shall we?"
Soon, the two of them were out in the street, walking arm in arm. The air had grown cold with the loss of the sun. "What is it that you do, Mr. MacLeod?"
"Please, there's no need for the formalities."
"What do you prefer, then? Fergus, or Roderick?"
"It doesn't make any difference to me," he told her.
"I've always been fond of the name Roderick," she said. "It means famous ruler, you know."
"How unfortunate then that I'm distinctly infamous and in charge of absolutely no one other than my siblings," he replied with a self-deprecating laugh. "Then again, my first name means bravery, and I'm not brave, either - so I suppose both of my names are unbefitting of me."
"So confident in yourself," she commented, her sarcasm not lost on him.
"I know what I am. I have no illusions." He smiled at her. "However, I am devilishly handsome, so it makes up for at least a majority of my faults."
"Devilishly handsome, are you?"
"Oh yes. Or at least I like to think so. I don't often get other opinions." He nudged her slightly. "What do you think?"
She gave him a scrutinizing look. "Not bad," she conceded. "Eyebrows are a bit much, I have to admit."
"Oh, you wound me, madam."
"Ah-ah. No formalities for me, either," she scolded him. "Just Vida."
"Vida... alright," he said, testing her name. "Lovely name."
"All charm, aren't you?"
"Depends on whether my charm is actually working or not," Fergus replied as he saw both the smithy and tailor shop come into view. He smelled wood smoke - Clennan and Evandar must've started a fire.
"Is this a subtle way of you telling me you would like to see me again?" Vida inquired. Fergus nodded.
"Was I being subtle? I hadn't noticed. Allow me to rectify my mistake and be quite forthright." He released her arm and bent on one knee, taking her hand in his. "Vida Dunn, I would like to see you again." He smiled at her. "The area around here's rather beautiful. Perhaps you'd let me give you a proper tour?"
Vida laughed, and he loved the sound. She squeezed his hand lightly, then pulled him up. "Tomorrow, then. Around sunset... come get me and show me just how beautiful this place can be."
Fergus grinned. "I would like that very much," he said.
"So would I," she responded as he walked her to her door. "Where do you live, anyway?"
He snorted, then pointed to his shop. "I'm the local tailor. If you need any of your clothing mended, I'm your man."
"You'll be close by," she surmised. "Isn't that a happy coincidence?"
"A very happy coincidence indeed," he responded. Vida gave him a small smile, then stood on her tiptoes and place a light kiss on his cheek.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Roderick." She did like that name better, then. Without another word, Vida disappeared into her quiet home, leaving him alone and smiling like an idiot on her doorstep.
Sam's eyes blinked open, and he let out a short gasp. What the hell was that? He sat up in his bed, pushing a hand through his hair. That hadn't been his own dream, that had been Crowley's. Which meant that Crowley had healed enough that he was no longer unconscious, but just asleep.
That wasn't just a dream, though. That had been a memory of Crowley's human life. Only this time, instead of him beating his son in a drunken rage, it was the first time that Crowley met who Sam recognized as his future wife. The flashback had been so poignant, so... consuming. He'd felt everything Crowley - Fergus? - had felt as if it were happening to him.
It was so strange to experience things from Fergus's point of view. Even though every demon was a human at one point, and Crowley had shown his human side more than once over the past few months, it was still hard to see Crowley as anything but the bordering on omniscient demonic king he'd known for years. Fergus MacLeod had been a completely different person, but somewhere in that man's heart had been the potential for Crowley, the King of Hell. That potential had been bled out in Hell, and the demon he knew had risen from it.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to center himself. He didn't like getting sucked into Crowley's head, but he'd rather sit through the good memories than the bad ones. He'd take a moonlit stroll over being tortured in Hell any day.
Sam checked the clock on his bedside table. It was just a little past seven in the morning. It had been three days since he, Bobby, and Crowley had returned to the bunker. Crowley had been unconscious for that entire time. Sam had enjoyed being back home and being with Dean, Cas, and Kevin again, even though they'd come back from the Middle East less than empty handed and Crowley was still in poor shape. Charlie had departed yesterday - apparently an old friend of hers in Portland had called in a favor, and she needed to take care of it. He wasn't sure how that was possible, as he thought Charlie had burned all of her contacts a long time ago. He'd liked having her around again, and she said she'd come back as soon as she could.
Sam debated his current options. It didn't take him long to come to a decision.
Really, he should let Crowley sleep, but he'd been feeling the King's absence strongly since they'd returned to the bunker, and he wanted to make sure that he was alright after how far he pushed himself the other day. Plus, he seriously doubted that he would be able to go back to sleep, now. Even if he did, he would probably just be dragged back into Crowley's head, and he was worried that the next memory of his human life wouldn't be as pleasant as the last.
Sam swung his legs over the side of his bed and stood, stretching his sore limbs. Quietly, he slipped out of his room and headed across the hallway to Crowley's. He assumed that the demon was sleeping, so he didn't bother knocking, instead just allowing himself in. Crowley was flipped onto his stomach, face buried in his pillow. Sam approached the demon, kneeling down next to him.
"Crowley?" he said the demon's name.
"Already awake," Crowley murmured sleepily, eyes still closed. "I woke up when you did."
"Oh." Sam wasn't fully sure how to respond.
"Did you see it?" They both knew what Crowley was referring to.
"I did."
Crowley was silent for a long moment. "I consider you my friend, Sam," he said, and both the statement and the sincerity in the demon's voice surprised him. "And as your friend, I'm asking you... not to ask, alright? Regardless of what you may see in my weaker moments... never. That's one thing I won't talk about... not my human life."
"Crowley..."
"Please."
He didn't know how he could refuse when it was obviously something that pained Crowley so deeply that he wouldn't even speak about it.
"Okay," Sam said at length. "I won't."
He sensed a flood of gratitude from Crowley. "Thank you," he said softly.
Both of them were quiet for a few moments. "How are you feeling?" Sam eventually asked.
"Tired," Crowley replied, finally opening his eyes and meeting Sam's gaze. "How long have I been out?"
"Three days."
Crowley let out an irritated sigh. "Brilliant," he said sarcastically. "What happened? After we escaped Eden, it's all a bit... blurry."
"You managed to get us back to the bunker, and then you healed me before I could bleed out. After that, you passed out," he explained.
"Seems to be my typical method of exit these days. Bad habit, really," he said, some of his usual disposition seeming to return to him.
"If you hadn't done it, I probably would've died," Sam admitted. Crowley smirked at him.
"Another bad habit. You're a trouble magnet, you realize that?"
"The demons attacked all of us, not just me."
"Yes, but Bobby and I got out without holes poked through us, now didn't we?"
"Take a look at your thigh and then say that again," Sam said dryly. Crowley snorted.
"Please. That was barely a scratch."
"I had to suture it!"
Crowley rolled his eyes. He was out of bed in a blink - testing his powers, most likely - and beside Sam. Sam stood up as the demon pulled down his pants. Where the sutured injury had been, there was now just a faint pink line.
"Demon healing. Useful, on occasion. So, case in point; barely a scratch."
Sam looked away, but he couldn't help but chuckle. He'd missed Crowley over the past few days, and it was nice to have the demon awake again. "Okay, okay, fine. Just put your pants back on."
"Does it make you uncomfortable?" Crowley asked, arching a lecherous eyebrow and still smirking at him. "Want a strip tease, Moose?" the demon asked, wiggling his hips.
"Oh, God," Sam half-groaned, half-laughed. He pushed Crowley back onto the bed, pants still around his knees. "I liked you better when you were asleep."
"Now you're shoving me on the bed. Just dying to have your way with me, aren't you?"
"Shut up."
"That's not a denial," Crowley said in a sing-song voice. "We both know you have a thing for demons."
"Okay, that's just not fair."
"All's fair in love and war," Crowley replied mordantly. Crowley kicked off his pants and laid back on the bed, hands behind his head. "It's rather hot in here, isn't it?" He smiled at him, and even though he was wearing new skin, in that smile Sam recognized a hint of the grin that Fergus had given Vida on that night over three hundred years ago.
Crowley was messing with him, obviously, as was the demon's usual habit, but Sam couldn't help but stare. It was so rare that he saw Crowley bared in anyway. The demon wore a full suit at all times, even when he'd been searching through the desert in 110 degree heat for Eden.
And then he felt a stirring in the pit of his stomach, a spreading feeling of warmth as blood flooded south.
Oh my God.
Sam immediately turned his back on Crowley and tried to throw up iron walls around his thoughts and feelings as best as he possibly could. He'd been practicing for months, but he still didn't have the same kind of mental fortitude that Crowley did. But Crowley could absolutely not, for any reason, know what he was thinking right now.
Crowley was half-naked and Sam was actually turned on by it.
What the fuck was happening here?
Sam cleared his throat, hoping to God that Crowley hadn't noticed anything over their link. "Alright, uh, if the obnoxious sexual innuendos are over, do you want some breakfast?" The demon may have no biological need to eat, but after exhausting himself so much, it certainly wouldn't hurt for him to get some food in his system.
"Well, nearly getting killed by Abaddon tends to spoil my already non-existent appetite. Coffee would be appreciated, however."
"I'll make you some." Without looking at the demon, Sam quickly exited the room, his cheeks flushing somewhat spectacularly. He shut the door behind him, heading to the kitchen. Once there, he splashed ice cold water on his face, attempting to clear his head.
Really, he should've expected this. It wasn't even the fact that they spent so much time around each other, or the fact that he and Crowley got along remarkably well in spite of their past attempts at murdering one another. It was the connection that they'd formed in that church almost three months ago. It was the mental and emotional link that they shared, whether they liked it or not. They'd seen each others nightmares and dreams, seen parts of each other's lives that should've never left the dark closets they'd been stowed away in.
The bond they had was intimate, that went without saying. It only seemed logical that a kind of physical attraction would eventually come out of that, regardless of the fact that Crowley was a demon, or the fact that his meat suit and original gender was male.
He was surprised that instead of immediately fixating on the fact that Crowley was a man or the fact that he was once again having feelings for a demon - which had not turned out well at all the last time - he found that he was just... scared. Terrified, really. Because when Sam felt strongly about someone, it never turned out well. Just look at Jessica and Amelia. One was dead, and one utterly lost to him. The kind of pain he'd felt in both situations, that was something he never wanted to experience again. Handing over your heart to someone and then watching it go up in flames... there was nothing quite like it.
That was why he had shut himself off so completely from the idea of meeting someone, of settling down. Because he obviously wasn't made for that kind of life... and he wasn't sure if he could lose someone like that again.
And now this.
"What the hell am I gonna do?" he whispered to himself, toweling off his face. Nothing, he answered himself. There was nothing to do. Maybe this was just a one-off. A fluke. Maybe he felt nothing but friendship for Crowley, and this was all just some freak reaction to his relief that the demon was alright.
They sounded like weak rationalizations, even to himself, but for now, they were all they had. He had the distinct feeling that he was going to get sucked even deeper into whatever this was. He didn't really have a choice.
For better or for worse, Crowley was a part of him, and there was no changing that.
Once he detected the scent of coffee in the air, Crowley exited his room (with his pants on), stretching like a cat. He detested those few hours after waking up – he always felt stiff and sore. He was grateful for the fact that he didn't have to sleep every single night. He didn't remember it being so unpleasant when he was human.
Being human… something he was recalling more and more. His past was slowly turning from fragments into a clearer picture, which wasn't something he was particularly happy about. Even the decent memories of his time as a human were tainted by the knowledge that everyone he had cared for while he was Fergus MacLeod was long dead, and of course how his human life eventually turned out in the end put a damper on things as well.
Vida Dunn. She'd been beautiful, she really had been – and he was fairly sure that he had loved her, when he'd been capable of such a thing. Thoughts of her were very bittersweet. She'd smelled like roses and made his heart beat a little too quickly in his chest, and she had kept him on his toes.
Sam reminded him of Vida. It was ridiculous comparison, but he couldn't help doing so. Perhaps not specifically in how they were as people, but in the way they made him feel. Except that Sam didn't smell like roses. Sam smelled like lemongrass. He didn't know if it was the hunter's shampoo, or just his natural scent.
Crowley sighed quietly to himself. Bloody feelings. That Moose was going to be the death of him, he was sure of it.
Crowley was distracted from his thoughts when he crashed headlong into someone rounding the corridor's corner. Crowley let out a grunt and went down, along with who he crashed into. The colloquial swearing and smell of Old Spice let him know that he'd collided with Dean.
Crowley pushed himself up quickly and offered his hand to Dean, who glared up at him before reluctantly accepting the help. Crowley easily pulled the larger man to his feet. Dean dusted himself off. The hunter looked like he'd just gotten up. He was clad in a pair of loose fitting sweat pants and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. Crowley idly wondered if Dean listened to any music from this century.
"Squirrel," Crowley greeted coolly.
"Crowley," he responded in a similar manner.
"Sorry about that. I was a bit distracted."
"Yeah, no kidding." The hunter scrutinized him. "How are you feeling?"
"How sweet of you to ask. I feel like a cavern system fell down on top of me. Oh wait, it did."
"Not before you burned down the Garden of Eden."
"I'm sure you've heard the saying, 'go down in a blaze of glory'? I took it to heart."
"Uh-huh. Well, whatever." Dean shuffled uncomfortably. "Good job not dying."
"It's a talent of mine."
Dean opened his mouth, and then shut it, seeming conflicted. "Alright, I'm going to do something, and we are never going to speak of it again, okay?"
"If this is you finally trying to jump my bones-"
"Shut up, Crowley," Dean said before he promptly pulled Crowley into a tight hug.
Oh. That was just… not right. Crowley was not a hugger. With Sam, perhaps, and with Gabriel – the archangel had always been the touchy-feely type – but that was about it when it came to people who were allowed in his personal space bubble.
"Thanks for watching out for Sam," Dean told him, voice low and sincere.
Ah. So that's what this was about. "I told you that I would protect him." When Dean didn't say anything in response, he reluctantly lifted a hand and patted the hunter awkwardly on the back. "Also, if you're considering grabbing my ass, don't start anything you can't finish," Crowley added, trying to break the tension.
Dean snorted and pushed him away. "Dick," he said, but without any real venom.
"Moron," Crowley retorted easily. "If our Lifetime moment of the day is over...?"
"Yeah, yeah, we're done." Dean turned his back on Crowley and headed for the kitchen. "Coffee's on."
With a faint smirk, Crowley followed behind him.
A/N: Writing Fergus stuff is simultaneously extremely awkward and very fun. I can't claim to know much about late-1600s Scotland, so if I got any of the culture/way of speaking wrong, my apologies!
