So, funny thing. I actually forgot to mention this in the last few chapters I got posted in November, but last month was actually the second year anniversary of first posting Crossroads at the River Styx. Honestly, I'm amazed it's been going over so well. I've been getting so many wonderful reviews and support from you guys, it's really warmed my heart. You've all be great and I adore you all. So a very big thank you to you readers. I can't help but feel like I should do something special, maybe for the 30th chapter that's coming up next. I'll have to think about it.
Chapter 29: You're Not My Slave
There were very, very few good things that could be said about Hell, and even those you had to be feeling generous to allow. One such benefit though was the issue of shared problems. Just about everyone hated the place, only the most sadistic and untouchable demons in the pit able to stave off the horror from touching them. Most though just did their best to bare through it, and relative mocking surprisingly didn't happen that often. While demons were cruel and vile, there wasn't much point in tearing into each other verbally. Taunting someone for their flesh being torn apart only was fun until the demon in question shot back how much screaming the other one had done yesterday. All-in-all, it was a relatively fruitless endeavor that only allowed the higher demons to act cheeky. Torturers preferred to be the ones cracking the jokes at the demon's expense anyway, and they didn't allow anyone on the rack to open their mouths for anything but shrieking anyway.
Crowley watched with a bit of indifference, feeling a sigh building up in his chest that he had yet to release. No one liked to expose weakness in the pit, not even him, and he felt he had even more reason not to want that than anyone else here. The thing about scheming, it got you in power, but it also left you incredibly paranoid. The game relied mostly on one rule, that with enough planning and gumption you could win anything. Anyone with the brains could climb up to be the most powerful being here, but it also meant the throne could always be up for grabs to anyone willing to put in the work. He knew from the very start that such movements would put his ass on the line, that he would have to be careful to keep the power he'd obtained, but the constant looking over his shoulder was starting to grate on even his nerves.
The souls on the floor where the torturers were working were all a mixed bunch. Some fresh souls, still blinding in their purity, some in the middle of being transformed, and some freshly made but still too weak to be let go of or the demon who was working on them was just having too much fun. There were also the ones being punished for slights and offenses. Guy had been here for a long time, begging and promising that he'd do anything to be released. Crowley didn't plan on it, not for a very long time, and it wasn't just business etiquette that demanded the short-sighted little bastard be punished. There was a lot personal stuff at work here too.
Crowley prided himself on his professionalism. In the long run it was better to honest when it came to the whole 'selling services for someone's soul' bit. Why lie when you could get what you wanted by playing it straight? He'd made plenty of deals, good deals, over the years since he'd become a demon and did so like to brag to the others just how much business he'd gotten purely from wandering around to offer what people wanted and then allowing word of mouth to spread. He'd been the King of the Crossroads for a reason after all, and he had his business practices to thank for it.
Demons like Guy were a direct affront to that, little idiots who couldn't see there was more power to be had in doing things smart. Sadism was fine and all, plenty of fun to indulge in, but should never be put in front of good sense. He loathed the demon for what he did, but it wasn't just because he was an idiot.
The incident had made him distinctly uncomfortable, because it all reminded him too much of his own lack of integrity.
From the moment Crowley had met Bobby, there had been a sense of intrigue inside of him for the hunter. Battered and frayed around the edges, but not worn-out just yet. He had been strong, even crippled and on the razor's edge of just offing himself, sticking through it because deep down he wasn't a quitter. One look at him and Crowley had known him intimately, seen that kind of man time and time again in his own life before Hell and the deals, men refusing to be broken by the cruelty of the world. Bobby had an old mindset and an old soul, almost as if he'd been born a few hundred years too late. He reminded Crowley of the farmers and miners he'd known, of the children in the work house that had survived to become strong adults.
Such fancies were fleeting though, or at least they should have been. When he'd promised to give Bobby's soul back, to hold it only long enough to find Death, it had been his real intention to do just that. He'd bent over, pushed their mouths together and… well, the tongue had been a nice surprise. He didn't often get that kind of enthusiasm, even from the ladies. To this day, he didn't know why he'd been kissed like that, if it had been some kind of weird instinct on Bobby's part or an attempt to throw the demon off guard for some reason. He'd played it off, but a sense of pleasure had tickled inside of him at the token, even as he told himself a man who shot you not ten minutes ago would not have interest in anything carnal.
Well, maybe a man would, but not a man like Bobby. The dislike and hatred for Crowley had been genuine, and not in a sick, 'I would love to hurt you in sex,' kind of way. Not that it had kept him from flirting and teasing with the hunter, attacking the moment like a shark that had smelled blood.
It had occurred to him almost immediately after the contract had been signed with said kiss that there was no way that Sam and Dean would take the possession of said soul lightly. Even if it had been to help save the world, on principle alone they would personally see to it that they gutted the demon for his actions. They might have killed him anyway, just for being what he was. Sam had tried to put a bullet in brain just second after Crowley had helped him obtain the Colt after all. It's not like the boys made fair deals themselves, trying to weasel out of Dean's sold soul despite the hunter himself chasing down one of his kind in order to get his beloved brother back.
So he'd justified keeping onto the contract until it was all done and over with. He'd told himself that as long as he did give it back to Bobby then he'd still be keeping his word, technically. Giving it right back had been the phrase he'd used, but there wasn't any real harm in a few extra weeks. To make up for the slight, he'd sweetened the deal and given Bobby some of his strength back, given him the chance to walk again and to climb out of that despair that inspired him to look at a bullet every day and fantasize about putting it into his brain. Crowley justified it by telling himself in his gratitude he wouldn't mind the extra time under the contract.
Then it had been all over and Crowley just didn't want to let go so easily. He had things in the works, alliances with angels and worrying about keeping his position as the new ruler solid. When Bobby had called him, he knew it was to get the lease broken and no underlying reason, but the demon had enjoyed it anyway. The funniest thing was, when he'd offered to bite the man, it hadn't been a joke. He wouldn't have minded dragging him down to the floor and finding out just what kind of things the hunter was into, but didn't seriously expect it to play out that way. It hadn't been in the cards and all the man had wanted was just pure business.
Crowley knew he should have just accepted it and been done with it, that whatever little fascinating feeling the hunter gave him was a distraction at best. He had too much on his plate to worry about one soul, and it wasn't worth the trouble such a resourceful hunter would surely be able to kick up. Yet the game was too enticing, the idea of Bobby calling him again and again in some effort to trap him, to force the demon to give him what he wanted. It was a game he could stretch out for a good ten years, make it last, nice and slow in a way that made him quiver.
The line about his best effort to give the soul back was pure crap, and he knew it as well as Bobby did, not even a decent technicality to fall back on. He'd wanted to be called though, and damn him to Hell twice over, but it felt thrilling to wonder if this strong hunter was actually good enough to outfox him. If he could manage it, he deserved his soul, and if not then he could get the next ten years of watching Bobby desperately chasing him down, a truly pleasurable experience if he did say so himself.
Then Bobby had won, and it should have been the end of the game. Gracefully bowing out would be the polite thing to do. He'd given up claim on Bobby's soul, had eventually done what he'd promised and let him go.
Only to have him kidnapped and drug down to Hell anyway.
He'd never been a paragon of virtue, far from it, but even that had made him twist around a bit inside of his own black heart. Murder, theft, rape, torture… all the sins he'd seen down here, all the ones he'd been baptized in himself when arriving in Hell, all the ones he'd seen on Earth, but lying was one he wasn't fond of. Morally, he could care less, but it was just bad practice for running an effective Hell. Yet, he'd went and done it anyway, all because he'd allowed himself to get possessive and obsessed with one little man.
Originally he'd told himself he'd just lock Bobby up, have him tortured until he broke and then throw him away once his human part that excited Crowley so much no longer existed. Demons loved to talk, and they loved to look for weaknesses. If anyone even suspected his less than professional obsession with the man it would most certainly be used against him. A demon happily betraying some stupid mortal and watching them suffer for the amusement alone though, that wouldn't even raise an eyebrow around this place. Did it make him a liar? Most certainly, but he knew he'd have to swallow down his own ethics, twisted as they were, this one time to protect himself.
He wanted Bobby all to himself, to own him completely, but to have to admit that would have been too damaging to his reputation. He'd been willing to destroy him to keep that want of his a safe secret. To let Heaven have him, to lose him forever, it had twisted inside of him enough to know he couldn't allow it but it also wasn't enough to make Crowley keep him safe either. The need inside of him, the obsession that had grown over him, it had to be squashed and if that had meant destroying the source of his obsession than so be it.
At least, that had been the plan. Somehow it hadn't worked out that way. A deal struck with fate, dancing with destiny itself, and now he had a prophecy in his lap that he couldn't make heads or tails of. Despite the request for no poetry, it was frustratingly vague. Hell's prophecies had always had a nice, simple ring to them. A righteous man spilling blood had been fairly on the nose, even if there had been some debate if a righteous man had meant any good man in Hell or if it was a title meant for one special soul they had to collect. To be fair, they'd been running around with only half the information, Heaven knowing the one who'd started it would be the one to end it, that it would be Dean Winchester, Michael's Sword that would be said righteous man in question.
Still, they'd known the end goal, what they had to do. Grab as many good ones as they could and turn them, make them stick someone, anyone and get the first seal unlocked. When Dean had finally given in, pure rapture had erupted in the pit as they'd all felt the first seal break and shatter to dust, and dread had filled the King of the Crossroads. He was smarter than most, knew it was all going to end poorly for them, but Lilith had been looking over his shoulder too closely for him to do anything about it then.
Now Crowley was in the middle of trying to figure out what he was supposed to be doing next, and frankly it was starting to grate on him. When was he going to be able to not worry about work so much and actually enjoy bloody being in charge around here?
It didn't help that Clotho's hint was doing him just as little good. Being nice to Bobby was supposed to seal the deal for his power, but exactly what was nice? Not bleeding him dry and writing dirty limericks on his skin was surely a kindness. He'd thought givimh him his own little slice of Hell, recreating the junkyard even, would certainly qualify, but Bobby had reacted to it like he'd gotten sprayed in the face with acid. No one had been allowed to touch him, he was cared for, would be allowed more peace in Hell than even Crowley himself received. If that wasn't being nice to him, he wasn't sure what was. Hell, he'd even sweetened the deal by not going back there after showing Bobby his new home, leaving him be instead of taunting him about getting his soul anyway despite the hunter's best efforts.
Only, he had no idea how any of that was supposed to be helping him! Maybe keeping him content would mean he wouldn't run around causing trouble for the king later on when his play for eternal control of this place went down.
"Your Majesty?"
The demon rolled his eyes and turned away from the scene of blood and screaming to face Dar, who was holding a small stack of papers in her hands.
"New deals made, or ones to be collected?" he asked her curiously.
"Times and dates for the next week on where the hounds are supposed to go for collection," she informed him. "It's already all handled. I took the liberty. They just needs your signature."
If they weren't both damned already he might have blessed her, keeping things running smoothly for him while he took his time to contemplate the universe and why it liked to screw with him so much. Instead he took them and signed after a few glances to make sure it was all in order. Not that he didn't trust her work, but this wasn't usually a side of the deals she handled. That in itself made him curious actually.
"Dar," he said as he took a quill dripping in blood, a tradition he'd like to squash but pens had a tendency to melt down here, and put his authorization down for the hunts to start. "Why are you still down here?"
"I… Your Majesty?" she asked him, clearly uncertain. No doubt wanting clarification so she could pick the safest answer. He only glared at her. He didn't want platitudes made in an effort to save her skin, he wanted honesty.
"You've been down here, looking after me like a trollop pretending at being a babysitter," he said, his tone smooth even as he insulted her. "Certainly not out of the goodness of your heart. You're after something. What is it?"
She glanced away before he grabbed her by the throat and backed her up against a wall roughly, snarling at her.
"Look at me," he demanded, and while she squirmed under his grip, her eyes locked with his. "Good girl. Now answer."
"Sire, you're out of sorts right now. The others are talking. I want things to continue to run smoothly so no one has a reason to cause trouble," she replied, her voice a little cracked from how strongly he was holding her in place. Even for a being who didn't have to breathe, she could still feel pain, and he wasn't attempting to be gentle with her. "Rumors are harmless, but they can lead to dissent, and I like things as they are, namely comfortable for me."
He eyed her for a second before letting her go, watching her fall to her knees and rub at her throat for a moment before she risked standing back up. This time when she didn't meet his eyes, he allowed it. He didn't apologize and she didn't ask for it, both knowing his paranoia didn't allow him to be a kind ruler. Again, it's just how the game worked.
"More invested in making my work look good than your own. Long time planning looks good on you, Dar," he complimented, but her face just twisted up.
"I'd rather be back in my own field, but even Guthrie isn't good enough to keep up on everything," she replied back as she straightened her clothing. "It's been nearly a year down here. Surely you must have some plan for Bobby Singer by now."
Truthfully, he didn't, and that was putting him on edge more than anything. A plan made him comfortable, knowing where he had to move his pieces next to get closer to his goal.
"How many of them know about his accommodations at this point?" he asked.
"I'd have to think just about all of them by now. It's gotten a lot of them curious why he's getting the penthouse treatment," she informed him. "There are those who wonder if perhaps you're getting soft already."
"Anyone who said that to me wouldn't have a tongue shortly afterward."
"Luckily no one is bold enough to test that just yet," she admitted.
"Well, that's something at the very least," he breathed out. As long as they were scared enough to just whisper behind his back, it implied a level of fear was still in them, and in fear there came control. Meg still hadn't broken either, and he was really wanting to have a sign to show the unwashed masses just who was in control here. Demonstrations of strength against ones like Guy would only work for so long. "This would be so much easier if they'd given me more to work with."
"I assume you mean the Fates?"
"Who else?"
"Have you considered asking them to make it more clear?" she suggested, but he shook his head to decline the idea.
"I'm sure they'd only ask for more, and I'm already starting to regret not being willing to pursue the prophet. To have someone who could read God's own words, to have that kind of insight of the universe and its power..." he hissed out before forcing himself to relax. He'd been told that this would get him power forever, and it wasn't in the Fates to lie, not in any of the stories he'd ever heard anyway. He just had to play it smart.
"I take it you haven't had any luck in figuring it out then," she noted and he shrugged in response.
"Glam already informed me if I played along then I'd rule forever. 'From this the Risen shall never have to fear his crown being lost.' It's clear that I'm the Risen that should have fallen," he replied. "The rest is lost though, only that someone is supposed to embrace me and be my shield, and all that nonsense about a Hidden One. Do you see anyone doing that willingly?"
"It's a rare demon that's willing to put the sake of someone else above their own," she admitted. He doubted even she was that fond of him. In fact it would be laughable to even ask. "The part about daughters imply a set of sisters though. I think you'd be better off trying to find them and preemptively just destroying them, though I suppose there is something to be said for finding a demon willing to serve you so faithfully."
"A shield would imply they would protect me, though relying on someone else for protection hardly makes me look competent, does it? They'd have to be stronger than me to do it well, and then the hoards would just start to wonder why they weren't following that instead."
"Only if the shield survives," she mused.
"What do you mean?"
"The Fallen must be your shield, right? They aren't mentioned for the rest of the prophecy though, implying after that point they'll no longer be important or needed. I would think they could very well be dead at that point. You might not need someone to protect you permanently, only someone stupid enough to take the killing blow, in other words shield you. Find someone to want you, and manipulate them into being so loyal they'd die for you."
It was an interesting thought, but he liked the idea of just finding the sisters that would try to attack him and making an example out of them instead. Still, manipulation was a talent of his, and one that he rather enjoyed using. Though, the question was, who did he know who'd fallen that should have risen? Risen to what, exactly? Heaven, perhaps? Maybe not something so literal, but more like a rise in status like he'd risen to be the was the fallen angel… No, Castiel was long gone and he didn't have much desire to try working with that little speck of celestial trash again even if he was still kicking around. Besides, his thirst for dying in a show of loyalty had all been directed at Dean since he'd decided that rebellion suited him.
No, it had to be someone else, someone who had fallen instead of getting their just reward. There were plenty in Hell who'd sold their soul for altruistic reasons, the demons wanting to hedge their bets in getting a Righteous Man to do the job of breaking the first seal. It was a long list to start crossing off, but finding one that he could get to throw away their life for him, one he could manipulate to give themselves up just so he could continue to rule? That was going to be a pain to find. Sadly, he didn't inspire the same loyalty that Azazel had, or hold the pure terror that Lilith had been able to instill into her troops. He'd clearly have to rely on his own strengths to get this done, once he figured it out.
In the meantime, he would just have to get other things taken care of. In fact, maybe he could even buy some loyalty here with that front.
"Dar, how has Meg been doing lately?" he asked curiously. "She still her little spitfire self?"
"She seems to take solace in the breaks you give her. It's not as if you can work on her all the time."
"No, but that doesn't mean others can't," he replied, his grin spreading wide on his face. "In fact, I'm starting to think there's a lot of these bastards that would love a chance to drag down the once proud little bitch daughter of a demon prince. All her strutting around certainly made her unpopular. I think I'll start looking for volunteers, get a sign-up sheet going. Go get those papers filed and then gather up Guthrie and tell him to meet me in my office. I think it's time to implement a little reward program for these pieces of infernal bile."
It was probably the passage of time that confused Bobby the most about his new home. He had expected the same problem in this imitation of his old home as there had been with his cell, nothing changing around him and leaving him clueless about just how much time might have gone by. The fact it wasn't working out like that at all wasn't something he had been expecting.
Day and night came like normal, or at least in some semblance of normal. The sky didn't change over the course of hours, just switched suddenly from day to night and then back again the same way someone could flip a switch. He timed it out on the clocks of his home, seeing he had fourteen hours of daylight and then ten of night. The first few times had been disconcerting to suddenly have it go dark on him, but when nothing came for him in the shadows he just found himself used to it, turning on lights a good ten minutes before it was supposed to switch.
True to Crowley's word, there wasn't much that was new about the place. The television only had shows and cable movies he remembered from ages past, and the phone lines were completely dead. Just to be thorough he had tried to dial all of Sam and Dean's numbers, but he wasn't at all surprised when it got him nowhere, not even a dial tone.
As far as he could tell, there was no way out either. He'd tried walking around outside, but the walls around his property seemed to be it. He could see out past it, the road and lands stretching out past his property, but he couldn't move past the wall, some invisible force keeping him there. He figured anything past the fence wasn't actually real, like some painting backdrop from a film. If there was some kind of doorway for escape, either he couldn't find it, or only a demon could open it. He'd like to experiment with that, but the fact of the matter was he hadn't seen neither hide nor hair of one in ages. When Crowley had left him, he was sure the bastard would return later on when he had some fresh material to taunt him with, but it had been nothing, not a word or sniff of sulfur. He'd been left completely alone.
It didn't seem any needed to come by anyway. It was like things reset itself after a bit of time, for supplies anyway. His fridge seemed to refill itself once a week with anything he'd eaten, as well as the ammunition for his guns. That had surprised him the most, to find his pistols and shotguns all where they were supposed to be, and they worked too. There was even salt for packing rounds, and after he'd made as many as he could manage, his supply of salt was back like he'd never touched it, but he still had the rounds.
He really wished he knew what was going on. It felt like there should be some answer here for him, something that he could work towards, and yet he wasn't even sure what that was. Should he try to escape? Somehow he had a feeling if he did he'd just find himself someplace worse and would have to keep his head down to avoid getting noticed. It's not like he'd be lucky enough for a hell gate to open and he'd just be able to climb out like John had. Well, hopefully not. He'd like to think the boys had a better lid on things than that.
The worst thing was thinking about the Winchesters. What would the three of them do, if they knew he'd somehow gotten himself trapped down here? Had he been wrong? Was Crowley using him in some sort of game against the boys, dangling his safety over their heads in order to get them to cooperate with him on some new scheme? He really would like to think he knew the demon well enough to predict how he operated, and it honestly didn't fit. The demon was smart, but he also had an ego that he loved to get stroked. Not only was it important that Crowley be the smartest person in the room, he had to feel like everyone else knew it too. If he had some scheme in mind here, surely he would be down here bragging about it by now, right?
Except he hadn't been here, not in ages. Bobby had taken a knife and started scratching at the body of an old tuck that he had no use for, counting the days on it. It had been months, nearly a year, and still no sign of the king. It was if Bobby had just been forgotten about.
Frankly, that in itself was kind of insulting. If he was going to be leverage, or bait, or whatever else Crowley was playing at, the very least he could do was actually make Bobby a part of it.
With nothing else to pass the time, all he could do was prep, even if he didn't know exactly what for. Try to handle everything if you didn't know what was coming, he supposed. He end up filling half his basement with salt rounds before he stopped packing them, put devil traps on the ceilings and under any rug he had, blessed as many jugs as he could fill with holy water. He wasn't even sure if it would work. Did that kind of stuff even do any good in Hell? Still, it was better than just sitting around and doing nothing.
He ate meals, slept when he started to feel worn out, mostly at night though he kept every weapon he could think of in his bedroom in case anything came for him in the dark. He didn't really feel like he needed it, but it would help keep his strength up and it almost felt normal, like any time he'd get a call from a hunter who needed his help or the boys or Emma would walk into his place. Not that they would. He knew they wouldn't, but the routine helped him pretend at least.
The blank books he took advantage of, as much as he could. While he didn't have a perfect memory, he'd been looking over these books for a long time. Anything he could remember he wrote down, trying to fill up every page with lore and theories, well-remembered or not. It almost felt like starting from scratch, but it seemed he had nothing but time on his hands, so why not do it anyway?
When the year hit, he felt like he was spinning his wheels, and he was about sick of it. There was nothing else to do, no other path for him to take. He was going to just have to take this situation by the balls and allow himself to make some risks. Answers were what he needed, and he was going to get them.
Perhaps summoning Crowley when Bobby was already in Hell was a stupid move, but what else was there even for him to do at this point? Could it even get any worse for him?
So he set up the ingredients needed, painted the symbols on his desk, and bled as he chanted. If he had to be honest, a large part of him wondered if it would even work, much like the holy water he'd blessed and created. Maybe being down in the pit would cancel it all out. After all, a summoning was traditionally to get a demon out of Hell, not drag them into it. Not like he had a lot of other bright ideas though.
He threw down the match to spark the fire, and as the ingredients burned into a shriveled up mess in the brass bowl, he sighed. Well, so much for that idea. He should have known it wouldn't work.
"You summoned me."
On the other hand…
The hunter looked up to see the demon standing in his kitchen, the feeling oddly familiar. It was almost like before, calling Crowley to try and get his soul back. Hopefully there wasn't a hell hound involved this time though.
One thing that was different though, was the expression on the demon's face. It seemed more than a little surprised, an expression that seemed to morph into a satisfied smile, though over what the hunter had no idea.
"I wanted to talk," Bobby explained. "I want answers."
"Answers on what, mate?" he asked, and it sent an itch down his spine at how pleased Crowley sounded with himself. Just what was he so happy about? Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.
"You kept me prisoner here for a year now. What are you after?"
"I would have thought that would be obvious by now. Your pretty little soul, of course."
The hunter snorted at that.
"Yeah, pretty is not the word I'd use to describe anything about myself, much less my soul."
"Mmm, perhaps not," he admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. "Charming more to your taste? Under all the liquor and slow boiling rage, you do have a way about yourself. In any case, we both know I wanted what was mine. I just enforced the contract."
"You destroyed that contract. If you were going to drag me down to Hell anyway why didn't you just make a show out of letting me go in the first place?"
Crowley ignored him and walked over to a shelf, poking at a bottle of rum Bobby had been working on earlier. His lip curled in disgust and he shook his head.
"You know, if you're going to call me here, you can at least offer me something to drink."
"Thought you were too good to drink with me," he pointed out but went to a cabinet anyway and pulled a sealed bottle out, dark liquid inside of it as he handed it over to the demon. "Craig, right? Ages thirty years?"
The demon looked legitimately surprised when he took it, eyeing it for a second before glancing up at Bobby, who only shrugged.
"Most of what I want or need has a habit of popping up here," he pointed out. "Including this, when I decided I wanted it. You want to tell me what that means?"
"You thought up a bottle of bourbon for me, just to see if you could?" he sighed dramatically. "Here I thought you just wanted my company."
"Cut the crap. You're after something and I want to know what it is. I've been down here for a damn year, wondering what's going on. I was held in a cell and not one single demon touched me, then I get this place, as if you're trying to imitate Heaven or something. It's all fake, and it's clearly fake, so you ain't trying to gaslight me or something. Just why are you holding me down here? What, just to say you won? Then why not rub my face in it? Where have you been all this time? Just why are you-"
The demon's eyes went red so suddenly, it caught Bobby off guard. He felt himself pushed against the wall by an invisible force, the smell of sulfur hitting him so hard he suddenly wanted to vomit. Fire licked at him, burning at his skin and into his muscle until it reached his bones that cracked and popped under the intensity of the heat.
Then it was over, all of it, and he was left panting hard in his study with only the memory of it, his skin untouched.
"That was only a taste, the softest and gentlest part of this place," Crowley informed him. "Did you like it?"
"What was that for?" he snapped at him. "Trying to punish me for wanting to know what's even going on?"
"No, that's to show you just what I'm keeping you safe from. I'm keeping it from touching you, keeping you from feeling the effects of this place as much as I can. You want me to remove that protection?"
If Bobby had been a bit more collected, he might have called the bluff, but he wasn't sure it was really a bluff and he didn't feel stupid enough right now to risk it. Instead he curled his lip in a sneer and decided for a more direct approach.
"You could have kept me safe from Hell's influence by letting me get to Heaven," he pointed out. "Or was I damned from the start?"
The king actually looked away, his fingers curling tightly around the bottle he'd been gifted, and surprisingly enough, actually answered.
"You're too good a man to deserve to be down here. No, I stole you from where you belonged," he admitted.
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to. Because I could. Because no one could keep me from doing it," he replied softly. "Because I wanted you to suffer for defying me, to prove I could win our game."
"I ain't no consolation prize," he replied gruffly, to which Crowley actually smiled.
"No, I suppose not. Actually, I was going to have you ripped apart and changed into a demon as fast as I could manage it," he admitted.
"I was expecting something more like that," he admitted. "So why didn't you?"
"You know, I like it when you call me," Crowley confessed. "Oddly enough, with all the people I know, with everyone I've ever met in my many years around, I find it easiest to talk to you."
"What?" Bobby asked, feeling confused here.
"Getting things off my chest, finding someone so refreshingly… you. You don't… you aren't… Well, Bobby. I guess you're just honest. With you, I always know where I stand."
The answer baffled him, and he wasn't sure what to make of that. Crowley wasn't torturing him because he wanted some kind of pen-pal or something?
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Of course I am," he replied before thrusting the bottle into the man's chest. "You going to get me a glass for this or not?"
Bobby had more an urge to break it over his head. Damned demons, never could get anything out of them. He wondered idly how long he could get away with pouring salt water down his throat before Crowley managed to escape. Probably not long enough to be satisfying.
Instead he just grabbed a glass like he'd been asked to, poured out some of the bottle for him and roughly pushed the glass into the demon's hand.
"You know I'm not going to give up. I'm going to figure out what you're up to, and I'm going to stop it. I don't care if I am your prisoner down here in Hell. I'm not going to roll over and just let you get away with whatever your planning," he warned him.
His words didn't seem to intimidate the demon at all though. In fact, a smile crept onto his lips.
"Robert, in all honesty, that's the best thing I've heard all day," he replied before downing the drink. "In fact, I think I'm actually looking forward to it."
End of Chapter 29
Oh boy, these two. You know the hardest thing about doing romance between Supernatural characters? If you want to keep it realistic, slow burn is practically a requirement. THESE PEOPLE DO NOT DISCUSS FEELINGS! With Dean and Castiel at least the feelings are already there and largely benevolent. Taking two stubborn people like Crowley and Bobby and getting them to a place to hold hands and smooch? Yeah, that's harder. Still, I do so love the build up. At this point, I consider it a challenge. Luckily I have all the time in the world, and by the world I mean Hell's weird-ass time schedule, to make it happen.