your reviews are all so lovely and sweet. i'm Revived. and i appreciate everyone giving this a gander. hope this fic can distract from things and stuff, please enjoy!
Gonna cite my references here and say there's a scene ripped directly from Season 10, Episode 22: The Prisoner, with a few minor tweaks.
BEEP
"Hello? Hey, Hi, It's Nysza. Sorry to, er, bother you, but…" Crash. Yelp. Sigh. "I know I said I was great with animals and would do you a favor," Thunk. Scrape. Muffled scratching. "I'm at a loss for words here. So when you asked me to dogsit for a few days, I admit I was really, um, overzealous? I kinda sorta thought you were going to, ha... " Crash. Yelp. Clatter. Bang. " Okay! You know what, it is one hundred percent my fault for forgetting you're a demon and you only have hellhounds, my bad, but they can't all stay here! They aren't responding to a spray bottle. I've lived with one, but I can't even tell how many are in my apartment right now, because I can't see them—!" Thunk. Bang. Scrape. "My carpet! Please. Please call me back or, no, just come and get them. Again, this is Nysza." Muffled yelling. Clatter. Sigh.
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"Morning! It's me, Nysza…I know I'm supposed to use this number for emergencies, but you haven't answered the past four times I've called, so that, I don't know, defeats the purpose? Maybe I should just use a summoning circle every time I need to call you. I know how to make one! And half the items were on discount. Hahaha—I'm kidding. That's a joke, and not just because the cat bone turned out to be plastic. Anyways, I was—"
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"Hello! Iiiiit's Nysza, did you get yourself—"
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"Hello!"
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oOo oOo oOo
FLASHBACK - FLASHBACK - FLASHBACK
Rowena turned up her nose, tilting her head from side to side as a soft sigh left her lips. Maybe she'd have one of the demon underlings bring her a skilled masseuse to work out the knots bundled up in her shoulders. The slip of a woman was able to move about with ease, using the shadows to her advantage. Only when she wanted to, of course. She had permissions to venture anywhere she pleased with her son being the supreme ruler of Hell.
For now, she caught sight of the human girl making her way past one of the corridors. Deeply compelled to say hello, the witch glided forth, the train of her dress snaking behind her, only to be stopped by a third party.
The girl, Nysza, gasped when another demon, too busy scrutinizing an unfurled scroll, crashed right into her.
Wincing in sympathy, Rowena covered her mouth with her hand, but made no immediate move to help.
"I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking…" The glass bowl lay shattered to pieces on the floor. Nysza flipped her hand over, seeing a bright red line spanning her ring finger down past her wrist. Quickly squeezing her hand into a fist, her arm throbbed.
"O-Oh, it's you. Miss—I'll clean this up right away." Quirking a brow at the demon's response, brimming with fear rather than respect, Rowena watched the demon drop to his knees.
"You have to get out of here." She said suddenly. The demon hesitated momentarily, taking the command as incentive to work faster. Nysza glanced over her shoulder, prompting Rowena to make herself scarce, keeping out of her sight. "I'm serious!" Grabbing the noncompliant demon by the shoulders and attempting to haul him to his feet, "He will literally whip you with your own spine, and then wear your intestines as a pageant sash, go!" In a flash, they were gone and not a moment too soon.
"Maybe get yourself a dustpan before y' damage yourself any further." Hand still closed, she turned to the source of the voice.
"Rowena? I thought you were someone else." The human seemed secretly relieved on that front. "Can I get you anything? Tea?" After the whole mess was tidied up.
"Oh I know very well who you thought I was, dearie." She rolled her eyes, seeing her take up the dustpan idea and begin her search. "And not unless it's tea-quila." Cooed the woman at the offer. Any favor she stood to gain with her son hinged on this fragile ceramic human figurine sitting at the corner of the table, inching herself off the edge. What did she have to do? Babyproof the place?
"It's… It's not even noon." The witch only hummed at the response.
A choppy movement caught Rowena's discerning eye. It would have been another thing to dismiss if she hadn't noticed Nysza's pale complexion, borderlining gray. And then she did the most inconveniencing thing. With a thump that the witch felt in her core, the human hit the ground. Nysza's consciousness departed, though not without the knowledge that she was somehow being scolded.
"Oh. no no no no no no." Anyone watching would have been awash with the notion that she was deeply concerned for the fallen girl, driven forward to kneel by her side and confirm signs of life. "I didn't spend hours of my precious time puttin' together this spell to have you catapult yourself into the great hereafter first chance y' get!" Not only that. Any and all blame would be shifted to her! The witch clicked her tongue. It was now or never. And behold, the last ingredient—her blood—was leaking in generous quantities over her palm creases and fingertips. "Sweetheart, if y' could jus' do me a teensy favor, and don't die yet." A pleasant request, rushed into one exhale.
Rowena recited the ancient tongue. The unblemished complexion of her skin swirled red, a widening vortex blossoming at her center. Energy thrummed at her palms as she touched the human, tracing symbols across her cheeks. Her skin soaked the magic, spreading like paint smeared on a canvas of water.
"This would go a lot faster if you'd lend a hand instead of standin' there all doe-eyed, Fergus." Deer in headlights covered it. Her nails trailed fire down the human's cool skin. The demon didn't move. "Och, at least go fetch the rest of the ingredients from my room! And don't touch the wardin', unless y' want to catch a case of flesh disintegration." In a flash, beneath the pull of her tongue over the syllables of the incantation, enunciating the phrases meant to summon power from their utterance alone, a linen drawstring pouch bag was dropped at her side.
She was dying. Faster than the witch wanted to admit.
Ingredients mixed hastily into the wide bowl, pre-ground and prepared for an emergency such as this. Imbued with the spark she needed to light the fuse, Rowena weaved the spell with practiced, precise movements that only came with years of experience. A plume of swirling dust erupted from the mixture. It rose between the two women, flattening through the air. The physical manifestation of a cloud dispersed. And then… nothing.
Nothing.
"It didn't work." The first words Crowley spoke were numb. "You lied to me." Same volume. Same even spaces between his words.
She scoffed, taking great offense. "Lie to you? It's all quite elaborate to be a ruse, don't y' think?" Holding her arms out, demanding he take a good long look at the organized chaos around her, Rowena went over the spell. "Something's missin'."
"I brought everything you asked." From the inexpressive tone he'd entered with, a volatile one was corked beneath it.
"Somethin' is missin'." Rowena repeated with certainty this time. "Her soul…" Not fathoming an error on her part, she searched outside the box, "You said it was yours?" The human was still alive, barely. Her pulse was a dying butterfly at her fingertips.
"It… was."
"Was?!" Past tense? Rowena snapped upright, turning to her son for the first time, "There you 'ave it! Don't try to shift the blame on me, that's why it didn't work! How did y' manage to lose an entire soul?" Her words caught, glimpsing his expression. His aura—that hard, frozen lake with currents moving beneath it unseen—was beginning to crack and torrents of pain and betrayal rushed, quick cold and uncontrollable through the fissures. For the first time, be it just a fleeting moment, Rowena was stunned into silence by how much she felt for him.
How did he lose it?
He'd returned it willingly, impulse unchecked, thinking he was going to die. A crossroads demon that reneged on his deals was despicable.
Where was his impulse control now?
Lying in a pool of her own blood.
END FLASHBACK END FLASHBACK END FLASHBACK
oOo oOo oOo
Will you ever be able to forget?
Sure he could. It would have been all too easy to brush off a passing fancy—if he could even call it that.
He didn't crave her company because she was so wonderfully special to the universe. He craved it because she was the only person who genuinely treated him with a semblance of affection. The bar was so unbelievably low in that standard too, considering how even his own mother was conspiring against him. How incredibly pathetic it was to roll over at the first person who promised validation. Once he convinced himself he didn't require what she provided, then she meant nothing.
Nysza had gotten under his skin.
And the demon was cleaving away his own flesh from bone with every attempt to get her out.
Crowley could forget her. At the very moment, he didn't feel a shred of sentiment toward the human atop the hospital bed. Not one.
But…
Memory was a cruel device. One that left him scarred. He remembered how intensely she made him feel. Oh, how he longed for it.
Love is patient. Love is kind.
Bullshit. It was the most selfish emotion to infect the masses.
This love was not patient. This love was not kind.
But it was... mine.
All intrusive thoughts aside… he had work to do.
oOo oOo oOo
"I think if you keep holding out your hand, someone will take it eventually."
The human was somehow more annoying in a comatose state than she ever was physically in his presence.
While her insight wasn't what brought him to the address Dean texted him, they played like a broken record in his head. Distorted and distant.
11979 Cedar Street
Concordia, Kansas
66901
Dean had phoned him for help. The call had been cut off by a sharp crackle of static, but a rendezvous point had been finalized through text. Responding promptly to a summons was rare, particularly without any promise of getting anything in return. Although, as the Winchester probably knew, this wasn't going to be a free meal. He owed him big time. The demon was going to make sure of that.
Graffiti covered the dilapidated brick building. Not even the "for lease" sign was spared from a faded black splotch of text. Wooden pallets littered the entryway. The demon strolled inside. As expected, the main office was abandoned, much like the whole building, he imagined. Abandoned warehouse was a trademark. Having always regarded the older Winchester—both of them, actually—as a lumbering creature, who charged in guns a blazin', it was mildly unsettling to be surrounded by so much stillness. He pressed on.
The yellowed vinyl curtain strips blew apart as he stepped through. Casting a furtive glance around the room, he began to consider the possibility that the address was inaccurate. "Dean?" Another empty room. Decrepit pipes and metal carts as far as his eye could see. No Winchester. "Dean?" He projected, sing-song, hearing his voice bounce back to him. There were more important matters to attend to than playing Marco-Polo, where the other player was refusing to shout Polo.
A sliver of movement, partially concealed, turned his head.
Click. BANG.
It struck him in the chest. Immobilized, a sound of pain fell from his lips, even before the burn of the bullet fully drilled into his vessel. The pipe he fell back against rattled. Instinctively, he applied pressure. Crowley felt around the wound entry. If he relied on the use of his lungs, he would have been in some real trouble.
"Devil's Trap Bullet." A voice informed him. This wasn't his first rodeo, which he proudly would have mentioned if he wasn't overcome with confusion first.
"Moose." The man rose from behind a set of stairs, fiddling with his weapon. "Shooting me from behind—" He exhaled sharply, "—poor form, even for you." The hunter holstered his gun. "Where's Dean?"
"Not here." Sam answered with such certainty, the demon pieced together the gist of this whole charade as he said his next words.
"He called me." This was either an elaborate misunderstanding, if he was being optimistic, or a setup. However, it was stinking a lot more like a trap.
"Did he?" Sam verified his suspicions, playing the recording on his phone of Dean's voice.
"Hey, I need your help." Complete with static fizzle at the end of his bait.
"Ah, aren't you a clever kitty?" How could he have fallen for such a weak dupe? The younger Winchester sibling stalked closer, unemotive. "Does he know you're doing this? I only ask because your brother and I are such close friends now." Crowley couldn't help the brag, knowing it would serve as nothing but potent fuel to irritate good ol' Moose.
"Friends?" A facial tic curled his lip up in a rueful sneer as he pointed the demon knife, "You're the reason Dean has the Mark of Cain!" Throwing his arm out, "Everything that's happening—all of this—is your fault!" He wasn't wrong, but Crowley still rolled his eyes, trapped into enduring another round of the blame game. "So this, hm.." He paused, "You've had this coming for a long time." Had what coming? A lengthy, sanctimonious monologue by Samuel Winchester?
The demon's gaze flickered down to the hunter's weapon of choice, "You really think I'm frightened of that toothpick?" Having already confirmed Dean had no knowledge of this dirty little tryst, he pondered the motive being as simple as seeking vengeance. Letting it play out would uncover the puppeteer.
"I don't care." Sam shook his head, pulling a small pouch from his back pocket.
"A hex bag?" The cursed object slipped into his coat pocket. Unable to move, Crowley narrowed his eyes. Whenever magic came into play, there was one safe guess he could venture.
Sam had his back to him, "By the way, she said to tell you she should have taken the three pigs."
Realization tightened the demon's expression, "Mother?" There was no distinct hostility on his tongue. The pieces connected at around the same time every bone in his vessel twisted until the fibers spiraled. He cried out, dropping to the floor, slumped against the pillar. A discarded doll. The searing pain in his gut intensified, ascending to a whole new level of agony.
He began to cough. The contents of his body threatened to spill to the floor. Repairing his vessel would be a chore after this. His insides were the equivalent of a packet of gummies left baking on a hot car's dashboard.
Sam watched for a moment, and then began to grow almost… impatient. It was like he was dying a bit too slow for his tastes.
"I thought you were the smart one." Mouth rimmed crimson, Crowley spoke when the pain plateaued. "Working with my mother… Are you insane? You actually trust her?"
"Of course not. Not even a little." It was a means to an end. A way to save Dean. If she could remove the Mark of Cain, then that was that.
"Then why? What has she got over you?"
"Will you just die already?" The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could get back to focusing on the main objective, with Rowena's cooperation.
Did you get shot… Again?
Go Away Rabbit.
"That's what I get..." He retaliated to the naggy voice in his head. I told you so.
"What?"
"I said." His insides contorted. Clearly enunciating his point, Crowley kept Sam in his sights. "That's what I get... for trying to be the good guy."
"Wait a second." He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "So, you're the good guy?" Indicating again with the point of his knife.
"Do you have any idea what I've been at for the past year?" Of course, every effort he applied was worthless in their eyes. "The changes I made to hell!" His mind had been filled with senseless notions. Warped misconceptions of—what—redemption?
"Am I supposed to be impressed by that?"
"Yes!" He shouted, "I thought…" Swallowing back what must have been another deluge of red, "If I did better." Speaking haltingly, "I might actually... feel something again." It was a hesitant admission to an audience who probably couldn't care less. What did he hope to do? Make his case, so that the Winchester would rescind his murder attempt? "That it might matter."
"It doesn't matter." This meager campaign for sympathy might have worked, if not for a few hiccups. "Hey, answer something for me then. Just humor me." Eyebrows hiking up at the same time as his disgust, he continued. The hunter wore a snide look, and watched closely as the demon writhed, "Nysza. Where is she?"
Crowley said nothing. Affronted by the swerve from left field that punched him square in the chest, literally and figuratively, he froze. The wordless movement of his mouth and silence was more definitive than any explanation he could have countered with.
Sam pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, scoffing as he nodded, "I asked you a question."
"That's none of your concern." He rasped, his vessel disgorging another stream of crimson to the floor. Half of it dissolved into red smoke, while the rest spattered under him.
"The good guy, huh?" Sam took a step closer. His eyes went to the ceiling for a moment before falling on the demon again, "You know she really—" Remembering the few times they had interacted, his few impressions of her were solidified when they conversed in the bunker, "She actually cared about you. We told her you were a piece of shit, and she just…" Absolutely didn't listen, or she took the explanation to heart and went about her business anyways.
She wasn't dead yet. In a declining vegetative state. Close enough. He didn't want to hear anymore. Hoping for the subject to be dropped, he muttered, "She's... gone." The pit within him deepened. "I tried to save her." He spoke earnestly, wheezing into another cough. They didn't know how he had repaired her soul, though he was what spliced it fatally in the first place.
"Oh really?" His brow furrowed in mock surprise, confirming the worst. "Wow! Shocker!" The hunter began to move away, his shoes skidding as he spun back, having more to say and deciding to say it, "Okay, let me ask you one more thing." Pausing through the coughing fit, "She's gone. Whose fault is it, exactly? Hm?" He waited. And waited. And... waited. They both were aware of the answer.
Crowley bared his teeth, vessel's blood smeared across his snarl. He knew where Moose was guiding the branch of questioning. It was written all over the hunter's face. Go ahead. Say a name. Any name that wasn't his own. He couldn't.
"Yeah, that's…" Sam's eyes fell to the floor. A shake of his head stopped him from the habit of offering condolences. "That's what I thought." Yet another person they couldn't save from the demon's clutches. "You know, maybe everybody else forgot about all the bad you've done, but I haven't!" His voice rose, "I have watched you kill people, Crowley—innocent people!" Anyone who fell under his radar wasn't safe, "People I cared about, people I loved!" It was like taking an eraser to lightly scrub at the permanent marker of his wrongdoings. "So, yeah, you—you have the accent, and the suit, and the snark, but at the end of it," Nothing changed. "You are a monster, just like the rest of them." The root of grief that had consumed his waking nightmares. "And I'm gonna watch you die screaming... just like the rest of them." He reiterated.
"You're right." He had been foolish to deny his own nature. "I am a monster" One that might have had its fangs sanded down while trying to wear an unfamiliar, patchwork guise for appeasing the masses. "And I've done bad." The demon spat, "I've done things you can't even imagine—" And he was good at what he did. His ability to dismantle an empire with ease from the inside was a force to be reckoned with. Waging psychological warfare on those who dared oppose him, reducing them to a pile of steamy entrails—mentally and/or physically, dealer's choice—came as easily as riding a bike. Whenever he attempted anything moderately benevolent, there was always moronic bumbling that was never present in his usual element. "Horrible, evil, messy things." Sam wanted to fit him into a mold, and he was more than happy to oblige. All semblance of struggling ceased. "And I've loved every... damn…. minute!" The whites of his eyes dyed sanguine.
Crowley ripped the devil's trap bullet from its impact point, regarding his red-dipped fingers.
It's always fun to watch a fish flop around on the dock, but it thanked you more when you tossed it back in the water. And in some convoluted way, Sam had hurled him back out to sea.
"So thank you Sam." He rose to full height, unhindered. Disconcertion flushed the hunter's expression. It was overwhelmingly gratifying. "For reminding me who I really am." A fine mist of crimson surrounded his eyes as he watched the human mount an attack. He made it about half a step, give or take.
Glass shards exploded, pelting Sam's body as it was thrown through the partition and into the brick wall on the opposite side. Casually scooping out the hex bag, "Powerful magic... " Credit granted. "Might have worked on any other demon. But me? Please." White flame engulfed the pouch sitting in his palm. A lazy movement of his fingers slid the demon knife away from Sam's grasp. His last lifeline spun across the floor, out of sight.
The hunter inhaled sharply through his nose, breathing heavily as the situation grew exceedingly dire. His back pressed to the wall. Small cuts from the glass skimmed his skin. Not so chatty now, huh?
Crowley raised his hand, fingers loosely curled as he stood over the Winchester. "I could kill you." He was in a position of advantage if he ever saw one. "Snap my fingers." End it. "Easiest thing in the world."
I won't be there, but that's okay, you have to know you won't be alone...
An eternity ticked by, but there was no symphony of shattering bones.
His arm dropped to his side. The red smoke dissipated.
"From here on, I want you to know that the only reason you're alive is because I allowed it." He warned quietly as his last act of pseudo-charity. Toeing the line could result in his demise. "And I want you to deliver a message. You tell that ginger whore that I gave her a chance to walk away and she spat in my face." It was too much to expect that they would part on good terms after kicking her out of the fold. "So, now, she'll never see me coming." He wouldn't kill her. Not right away. Rowena deserved worse.
The demon turned his head, another thought compelling him to glare at the cornered hunter.
"Oh, about Nysza." Perhaps he would give an explanation. Stomp Sam's accusation into the ground? Or... not. "If her name is ever on your tongue again, I'll rip it out and feed it to the hounds. Are we clear?" He didn't wait for an answer, disappearing from the warehouse.
Crowley had survived a long time, and assuredly, he didn't do it by relying on the goodness of others.
Nysza had gotten under his skin.
And, by the Devil, he would carve out his own marrow to get her out.
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING. SO MUCH. THANK YOU. *slaps thighs repeatedly* STAY SAFE ALL!
