Pain really was a funny thing, wasn't it? Because Crowley was very certain he'd felt much, much worse than this, in the span of his very long and very tiring existence.
But in that precise moment, with his head thundering like it was about to burst and his entire body sore, defeated; Crowley felt like he was going to die in the worst of ways. Worse than the two previous ways he'd gone out, anyways. He groaned.
"You know, dear; your liver is a much greater concern while you're in this… state."
Right. This state. Human, living in Hell, because apparently Rowena had decided after his untimely demise slash valiant sacrifice that she really did love him, after all.
He grunted his reply, screwing his eyes tightly shut as he pressed his face a little more insistently into the wood of the table, like he wanted it to swallow him up and be done with it.
Honestly, he'd take the rack again if it meant never: one, having to listen to his mother again, and two, ever having a hangover again. It was less than three years there the first time, he was sure they could speed it up a bit now just because most demons hated him so very, very much.
"You ought to be more grateful."
That was enough to rouse him. Probably because she'd done it on purpose; Rowena knew better than anyone that rage and annoyance were very powerful motivators in her family.
"Grateful for what exactly?" Crowley grimaced as he raised his head; even the flickering firelight from all the various candelabras and torches and the grand chandelier proved too bright for him.
He looked at the empty bottle of scotch beside him on the table. He was sure it had been full when he'd started last night. He sighed pointedly. "What? That after I'm dead you suddenly love me enough to bring me back, you're desperate enough to botch a spell- I'd rather still be in the Empty," he snapped. He really would.
There, it was wallowing in guilt and past mistakes as you slept. For eternity.
But here, on earth, as a human, he had the conscience enough for that guilt to mean something (a mostly tarnish-free soul that weighed him down like a sack of bricks made out of lead), and sleep was barely a reprieve from it all. That, plus the fact that he hadn't actually left hell, hadn't left the throne room and its quarters, even, in the months he'd been back.
And that while his mother may have had a change of heart he still resented her, greatly. Even though that itself was a source of pain and guilt as well for his freshly unblackened soul.
"Fergus-"
"It's Crowley." If he still had the propensity to flick his eyes red, they would have been blazing crimson. "And I'm not grateful, I'm not going to be grateful, if-"
"If you want to spend all your days wallowing down here in self pity and liquor then be my guest." Rowena snapped. "But that doesn't change the fact that you are here, and alive, and that you are more than free to go out and- see the world. Maybe the reason you're so depressed is because you've been staring at nothing but the bottom of a bottle for weeks on end. I ought to give you something to do."
"Like what?" Crowley laughed, "Not as if you can pile official duties on me, 'Queen of Hell'. All too human for that. So what are you going to have me do? Read a book? Go on a- refreshing nature walk, as if that's going to fix everything I've done? Everything I am?" Everything he had been twisted into, the constant pain and rage and… the fact he didn't feel it anymore was terrifying. That when he looked into his being he saw nothing but light, saw nothing but a human body.
"-Check on the boys. Haven't seen or heard anything from them in… well, it must have been a year, by now, with no apocalypses or world-ending events. Nothing new." Rowena raised her brows, entreating. "Scry first and then I'll send you on your way."
"So that's an order, then?"
And she stared at him, for a long few moments, her brow creased, "If it needs to be." There was something so resigned in her voice that Crowley faltered, eyes flickering a guilty path down to the ground and resting there.
Another shit thing about humanity was how easy guilt and shame were to stumble into. "I'm… sorry." He managed, halfheartedly, before he set off for the store-rooms.
Magic came a lot harder, now that he wasn't a demon. He relied on that extra boost of power far too liberally, lost a lot of the skills that were necessitated by being a practitioner.
He didn't talk about this with Rowena because he didn't think he could bear the shaming that he readily assumed would come with it.
It took hours. He had the ingredients, and knew them well, but tapping into that inner part and simply seeing was a whole other matter.
He knew he was holding himself back, and that magic was about willpower and visualization and positive fucking energy, but he couldn't muster up that belief in himself no matter how hard he tried.
So it was trial and error. Seeing into himself so he could then see all, and narrowing it down and down, whittling the rest of the world and it's stimuli away until it was America, and then it was the state of Kansas, and then it was the bunker.
It looked wrong; like something was preventing him from looking in. And when he did try pushing his vision past the door, he was slammed back and out of his vision with enough force to send him reeling in the real world, falling back onto the floor and hitting his head hard enough against the stone that he was seeing stars.
Rowena was there in five minutes precisely. Crowley had spent all of them staring up at the ceiling blankly, still twitching with the aftershocks until he was forcefully helped back up into the chair and steadied. "Chrissake-" He closed his eyes, grimacing on reflex. "Something pushed me out." He offered, watching blearily on as Rowena attempted the same with… much faster and greater success. That stung.
Feeling so entirely useless, compared to her. Compared to anything that mattered down here. He ignored it though, sitting forwards and watching her carefully. "What is it?"
There was a long pause. The minutes ticked by, and he watched her concentration deepen.
He'd assumed this would be busy-work. 'Go check on the boys, announce yourself as alive, get some fucking sun because you're pale, even for Hell, dear'. This seemed more troubling than that.
"Well, Fergus." He didn't even bother to correct her this time. "How would you feel about making a quick trip up? There's something that needs dealing with and I'm afraid I'm- well, I'm far too busy down here, you know."
He knew that was bullshit but, once more, he said nothing of it. "What is it? The spellwork I could see, it was like there was something tied to the bunker, what…"
"Wood nymph. Dryad.".
"What, so they're busy getting laid in there, is that it?" What nymphs he had encountered in his travels had more than proven the myths. The Greco-Roman ones, at least.
"This one is different." Rowena let out a long suffering sigh. "Older. Not quite like what you would find in Europe. The… North American varieties operate far more like the fae, than anything."
"Ah. So. Not good, is what you're saying."
"Not good at all, no."
"So- you look like you've got an idea of what's going on in there. Just what, mother, are you going to be sending me into?"
Rowena sighed again, fumbling for an explanation.
"Well, presumably, she'll be feeding. There's a certain… energy, that comes with excess. With pushing the- oh, just go and sort it out."
Having the Winchesters and the nephilim boy out of commission like this didn't do any good.
Rowena may run Hell, but she still knew that the world being up and running benefited her bottom line more than it detracted from it. And taking the Winchesters out of action was like severing the axle of a wheel. It'd keep rolling, for a while, but eventually it would just up and fall over.
"Fae rules, then? Manners, not accepting food, all that?"
"Very much so on that last part."
Crowley considered that for a moment, put it together with what she'd said previously and grimaced once more as he nodded. "Ah. Right. And how exactly…?"
"Hell does have a car, you know?"
"Just the one?" Crowley asked, amused.
"It was acquired in the late thirties by Mammon, I believe."
"Oh, you're not going to make me drive that."
There was silence.
"You're serious." Crowley shook his head. The gate from Hell that was open to Rowena (and himself, he supposed) only was in New England. He didn't want to drive a death trap- a death trap with no AC, at that- all the way down to Kansas.
"Well, Fergus, dear, you're more than welcome to walk."
Crowley slammed the door of the Bentley closed, sitting himself down behind the wheel and sighing heavily. There were several hundred more miles to go. He did so hate being human, not being able to simply send himself where he needed to be.
He still felt like he could. Like he could reach out and create that soft fold in reality, snap the sheet of it and go. But whenever he did try, whenever he did rely on the muscle memory of it, all it managed to accomplish was to give him a headache.
He took time to pat himself down- wallet, keys, phone, hex bags. Rowena had ensured it, after she'd filled him in a bit better on what the situation would be, and he found himself readily agreeing to the spells for protection and observance. He was all too human and all too easily snuffed.
Though, to remedy that this time all she'd have to do would be to pry him off the rack he was no doubt destined for a second time.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked out at the rising sun.
It was… nice. Just to look at things, now, without needing to see the auras and magic behind them all. He hadn't seen as a proper human sees in hundreds of years, even when he had stumbled into the nasty habit of injecting human blood. It was calming.
And then he was off driving again, eyes on the road and hands on the wheel.
He could see why Dean had liked it, so very much.
Watching the road breeze by, feeling nothing but yourself as you move, it was the closest thing to flying as he could imagine.
Planes didn't count; there you couldn't feel much more than the engine and the occasional turbulence.
But in a car- an older one especially, there was a connection to the road that was more than just shitty suspension. There was something there that was almost like magic.
It was nightfall when the bunker was in view and he was… he was fucking exhausted.
Normally, when he felt like that, it was like a defeat. A reminder of his humanity, of his guilt and of his failing.
But this was satisfying: he was exhausted from doing something that had actually been productive. It was the same satisfaction that came from a closed deal, when he'd been working the crossroads.
He stepped out and stumbled a little, did another pat-down and slowly walked up to the door.
He could feel the magic. It was almost intoxicating: set in and natural, like walking into an old-growth forest. He knocked on the door.
It was a terrible thing, waiting. Minutes passed and he shifted from foot to foot, rocked back on his heels, worried his hands together as he stared at the knob and waited for it to turn.
It felt like half an hour but it had to have been less before the door finally did open, and- well. There she was.
An old woman, but Crowley could see it didn't quite fit. Like a demon using a meat suit that didn't quite fit them, this wasn't her. This wasn't her nature.
"You must be Crowley, dear- I've heard ever so much about you- Though I did think you were…"
"I got better." Crowley offered, tracking her eyes down to his chest. He knew what she was looking for and he knew it was there. A soul. Humanity.
She stepped aside, satisfied. "Well- do come in. It's so late, I wasn't expecting guests- dinner's been cleared away, I'm afraid, but I can offer you some of what I prepared for dessert if you'd like."
Crowley shook his head immediately. "No. Thank you very much, but I've eaten my fill today. All I wanted was to- drop in, say hello." Look for a way to trace the spellwork written into the fabric, the very foundation of the bunker, and break it.
"Then I'll show you to the sitting room- or the Dean cave." She chuckled indulgently. "Though all of them have been spending so much time there, we really ought to think of a new name."
"Ah." Crowley allowed himself to be led, with her arm around his waist, down the storied iron steps of the bunker.
They didn't burn through the soles of his shoes, and while it should have been nice it felt wrong. The whole place felt wrong even though it was up and running properly.
Through the map room, brilliantly lit, into the more residential section and…
He froze where he stood, staring. "So this is what you all have been up to in my absence."
The nephilim- Jack- didn't react at all. He seemed to be asleep, which was probably a near constant state just given the sheer size of him. His divine parentage was likely the only thing saving him from crushed organs and a slow, painful death.
That and the spellwork he could see sunk into his fatted flesh; both the work of the nymph and Castiel- who was sat beside him, only half as large- though that wasn't saying much at all.
He seemed the only one lucid enough to actually turn his head to look at Crowley, though.
"You were dead, I thought."
Though lucid did seem a strong word.
Caloric overload was its own special breed of exhaustion, being stuffed so full that there was nothing left but wheezing yourself to sleep as the pounds piled on. And, looking at the dessert cart, there was quite a lot left for them all to go through.
"Mother came through in a clutch." Crowley managed a thin smile. The nymph was still there. Still watching, observing.
"He came in to see how you boys were doing." She offered kindly, brows raised. "I'm sure he's quite surprised at seeing just how well it is, no?"
"…Surprised, certainly, though I'm not sure 'well' is the word I would use."
"S'fine. Hey, uh." Dean hiccuped, the entire bulk of him jiggling with the force of it. "Hey, Crowley. S'better here than hunting. Uh, safer. Right, Mrs. Butters?"
"Right indeed. How do you feel about more pie? I know you're not quite full yet."
Crowley watched Mrs. Butters march her way through the soft little protests Dean attempted, watched her feed him two pies each big enough for a family of eight.
It was horror that kept him there in the chair she must have set out for him while he was talking to Dean and Castiel.
Horror as he looked at his phone found no signal or reception, as he patted himself down and found nothing but his wallet and keys.
But it was in a stupor that he carefully accepted a small cup of tea (honey and a splash of milk, though he didn't recall giving his preference) and sipped at it. And watched on.
"Best get you to bed, dear." He allowed himself to be shepherded again, blinking. "I really ought to go home." To Hell. Mother.
He was here to check in and then go back so they could form a game plan, he was meant to-
"Oh, nonsense. You can leave tomorrow after breakfast and a good night's sleep. You can have Dean's old room, he's certainly not using it anymore."
Crowley wasn't sure what shocked him more upon awakening: the fact he'd allowed himself to be led to the room that had previously belonged to Dean Winchester, or the fact he'd had the best night's sleep he could remember. None of the extremely unpleasant symptoms that had plagued him since resurrection. The insomnia, the nightmares, because apparently that was a thing when you had several centuries of demonhood under your belt and suddenly got your soul back. The unexpected and wildly undernamed restless leg syndrome. None of that, just straight on through to the morning without even a drop of alcohol in his system, and when he woke, he was fresh and rested.
He lay there on the mattress, all but cradled by the memory foam, where he'd stood over Dean years ago and waited patiently for his eyes to open black. There were still remnants of him in here. Crowley quite clearly remembered spying photographs - not in frames or anything, just a pile of them - on the desk when he came in last night, and there was at least one weapon visible, a sheathed machete leaned carelessly up against the wall. It even still smelled slightly of Dean, something like gunpowder and leather and spice, though of course Crowley's senses weren't anywhere near what they had been when he was a demon.
He pushed himself slowly up. All the usual morning aches and pains were, if not gone entirely, at least muted. He already wanted a drink, but he could certainly admit: the lack of a hangover wasn't at all unpleasant.
Swinging his legs out of bed, he paused, then looked down at himself.
"Oh, you have got to be joking."
A dressing gown. He didn't remember putting this on last night, although he obviously must have. He wondered what else he had done that he didn't remember.
Thankfully, a very passable pair of dress slacks and a sweater he supposed could be considered tasteful were laid out on the desk, alongside his wallet, keys, and phone. After getting dressed, he checked for reception. Still zero bars.
Part of it was probably the bunker itself, he reasoned. After all, what secret society's apocalypse-proof, magically-run and warded inner sanctum worth its salt didn't come with a little lead lining?
The only problem there was that he couldn't recall any of the Winchesters (and he counted Jack and Castiel firmly among that number) ever complaining about dropped calls or iffy wifi.
Crowley paused when he noticed the note on the door.
Crowley -
I hope you're feeling well-rested! You looked quite peaceful; hopefully the bed was to your liking.
Please feel free to let me know if there's anything I can do to make you more comfortable.
Breakfast is in the kitchen whenever you want it.
MB
Of course she'd had to be in the room, to lay out the clothing (which was a tad casual for his tastes, but still grudgingly acceptable, given the circumstances). Still. Having the confirmation sent an uneasy prickling down along Crowley's spine.
He left, peering out into the hallway as if she might be waiting for him out there. Empty. Maybe this was his chance.
He paused briefly at the junction that would have led him down to the...what had Mrs. Butters referred to it as? The Dean-cave? Not hard to guess who'd come up with that name. But it wasn't as if he could load any of them, even Castiel, into his car without the aid of some extremely complicated magic he simply did not have the resources for right now, and they would all be better off if he could get out of here, rally his (realistically, distastefully, Rowena's) forces, and return better-prepared.
And if he didn't come back. If he decided simply to get back in the car he could admit was growing on him and to just...keep driving. The boys had always been resourceful, they'd gotten themselves out of far worse jams in the past. Really, leaving them to their own devices might be the best thing for them.
And Crowley had heard SoCal was lovely this time of year.
He headed for the front door. Passed the map table and everything, saw the wrought-iron stairs in all their ugly utilitarian glory. And wound up standing in the doorway of the kitchen, where Mrs. Butters, humming to herself, was stirring a pot on the stove.
Crowley squinted.
"Just what is it you're doing here?" he asked her.
She turned to look at him, a little smile on her face. "Hm?"
"Simple mind-bending, or is there an actual spacial-distortion effect at work here?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, dear." Mrs. Butters pulled the spoon out of the pot, tapped a few droplets off it. "Hot chocolate?"
"I prefer tea." Crowley stepped into the kitchen. "Breakfast is in the kitchen" indeed - it was on the table, on every counter, on the shelves of multiple carts lined up like a fleet of ships ready to go out at the admiral's order. Muffins and doughnuts and pancakes and waffles, eggs, bacon, cinnamon rolls, sausages…an entire diner menu and then some. "I was caught a bit...off guard last night…" An understatement. "But I think the least you and I can do is be honest with each other."
Mrs. Butters tilted her head, a puzzled little smile fixed to her face, and pulled a chair at the table out for him. Reluctantly, Crowley sat, since he obviously wouldn't be allowed to leave.
"Oh, I agree wholeheartedly, dear."
"All right, then." Crowley folded his arms on the table, and eyed the cup of tea that was placed in front of him shortly after with distrust. It did look perfectly made, though. And if they were operating under fae rules, eating and drinking all that, which his mother had seemed to imply they very much would be, that ship had already sailed, wrecked, and sunk, unfortunately. He took a sip. Excellent. "I'd like you to tell me why you aren't letting me out."
"Well…" Mrs. Butters folded her hands in front of her. "I'm going to have to apologize, Crowley, but I really don't have any idea what you're talking about. You're free to leave anytime you like. If you've decided to stay, of course I'm - "
"I have not," Crowley all but gritted out, "decided to stay. In fact, if any of them, Sam, Dean, the angel, the nephilim, were in their right minds rather than glutted to drunkenness on sugar and magic, I've no doubt they would have left the second they picked up on what you're doing."
"Crow - "
"Because they have, I'm sure of it." He interrupted, would not be dissuaded. The foiled escape attempt had left him surly enough to make Bobby Singer proud. "I've known them far, far longer than you, part of the reason they've been such a specific fly in my particular ointment for so many years is how unexpectedly and accidentally clever they all can be, and I know they caught on at one point or another." He took another sip, then reached for one of the powdered doughnuts on a platter in front of him. "Whether or not they remember it, well. That's another issue entirely, isn't it?"
Mrs. Butters looked shocked. In fact, Crowley didn't think he could have gotten a more startled expression out of her if he'd simply gone and lit the place on fire.
"It's...my job," she said after a moment. "To protect them, care for - "
Having just finished the doughnut and drained the last of his tea, Crowley laughed out loud. And there it was: just a smidgen of anger in Mrs. Butters' face.
"Can I ask what's so funny?" Her voice was almost overly prim, as if she was putting a lot of effort into keeping herself together.
"You." Crowley shook his head, searching for a napkin. When Mrs. Butters very stiffly provided one, he wiped powder from his fingers and his mouth, then reached automatically for a muffin. "I'm sorry, dear. But what you've done - committed against, really - the Winchesters and their cadre of misfits is the very opposite of care and protection."
"Crowley," Mrs. Butters said with strained patience, "I realize you are a friend of the family…"
"Rather an overstatement. Or an understatement, I suppose, depending on the day." He took a bite.
"...but I will absolutely not be spoken to in such a manner in my home."
Crowley would have replied, but the pulse of power he felt suddenly, through the bones of the bunker, when she said the word "home" gave him pause.
He looked at Mrs. Butters. Really looked at her, delved into what he could see even as a human, having been touched by magic. He remembered everything Rowena had told him before he'd left, and what he'd seen last night.
It occurred to him that he was, as a small, soft, fleshy, very mortal thing with few of his previous powers now at his immediate and effortless disposal, about to take on something strong enough to reduce a nigh-indestructible angel of the Lord, the Antichrist, the other, newer Antichrist, and Dean Winchester to helplessly overfed blobs. Something that was undoubtedly able, as a nature spirit, to take extreme advantage of the home court advantage. And he was doing that in the place she'd been bound, staked, and transplanted into, then allowed to grow in and around.
This may not be the wisest course of action.
"Of course," Crowley said. "My...sincerest apologies."
Mrs. Butters smiled. It was more of a beam.
"Oh, think nothing of it," she said, waving a hand and clearing away his empty teacup. It was returned full to him in short order. "You had a long drive, and I'm sure seeing everyone last night was a bit of a shock; I can assure you that they are all very happy, though."
"Yes," Crowley said flatly. "I imagine."
That, at least, he didn't doubt. They were probably all blissfully happy right now.
"It will be nice to have another mouth around," Mrs. Butters said happily as she set a plate of scones, proper ones, oozing with cream and jam, in front of Crowley. "I've been relying on Castiel to soak up the excess, and he's been very helpful, but there's simply so much, you know? And he can only eat so fast."
"Mm."
"Of course, we'll have to get you on a strict schedule. The others eat at very specific times, you understand, and I'm quite used to cooking for a crowd, so if you happen to miss a meal, I'd simply have to cook the entire thing again all for you, and that might be…"
As she chattered on, Crowley did his best to tune her out, and began to eat.
Eating, as it so happened to turn out, was something remarkably easy to lose track of. And whether it was some sort of magical quality or plain-old regular quality (because the stuff really was wonderful), Crowley found himself stuffed- or overstuffed, he could admit that, not only from breakfast but from a fairly hearty lunch and dinner as well; the latter of which he took with the rest of the household.
And that was an experience he wasn't all that keen on repeating again, ever, not if he could help it. It reminded him very uncomfortably of the tortures for dedicated gluttons down below; being fed and fed until something burst.
But in this case nothing did. Even though, realistically, something ought to have given out in at least one member of the Winchesters and their little band of misfits.
And it was incredibly hard to keep himself from that level of indulgence, as well. Talking back to Mrs. Butters was a much more carefully thought out affair this time around and even then he was hard-pressed to get himself out of the chair he'd been sat in for the past two hours or so, off to retire because he really just couldn't stand to be around them, anymore.
It pained him in a way it never would have had he had even a small spark of the demonic left in him. To see what he would readily consider to be friends reduced (not that that was a fitting word) to something like this. To hardly doing anything besides eating; for any and all banter to be more half-hearted (though still undeniably happy and positive) words between bites.
He knew the bunker well enough. He'd been imprisoned and welcomed in in equal measure more times than he could count. But he knew the basement and its storerooms, arguably, the best out of all of it.
With Mrs. Butters still for the most part preoccupied, though he didn't doubt she knew quite well where he was, it was to that section he went- a little slower than he might have earlier, because after a meal like what he'd just had the only reasonable thing to do would be to either sit or lay down and go to sleep- in search both of records and research.
To find the nymph's original purpose, if there was any beyond powering the bunker's spellwork and acting as somewhat of a maid, would be to find a way to at least get her to stop with all this. Either that or to find a way to smash through the spells and actually kill her, which he was hoping the Winchesters wouldn't mind all that badly once they were in their right minds.
He'd hoped that he'd be able to get part of that done, or to at the very least find a starting point. That, though, proved to be wishful thinking- files relating to what he'd need were nowhere to be found, manuals on the bunker's magic were readily available up until the point he assumed they'd acquired the nymph.
He was beginning to feel more and more like he should just leave, and regroup, and come back, but he was more than certain that wouldn't be permitted. Which added more than a little bit of frantic energy to his search.
It was the late hours of the night: or more accurately, the early hours of the morning, when giving up on the pursuit for a little while became too tantalizing an idea to ignore. He scrubbed his hands over his face, letting out a shallow, resigned breath as he closed the logbook he'd been paging through.
And it was like a scene from the sort of horror movie Dean might have enjoyed, looking up and seeing her standing at the other end of the table, obviously having been waiting for quite some time.
Crowley cleared his throat, otherwise silent. "I was just about to-" He cleared his throat again, voice rough, "Pop off to bed. Sorry if I've… kept you."
He knew how it was best to act around the fae, having dealt with them at least once before- manners and deference were of utmost importance.
If she was anything at all like them he hoped he was doing a passable enough job to make up for before.
"Oh, no. Not at all." Mrs. Butters put a hand on the chair directly across from Crowley's, pausing. "Do you mind?"
He knew it wasn't a real question. Odds were both of them were fully aware he wasn't allowed to say no here. So he shook his head, and Mrs. Butters sank into the chair.
"My, how rude of me," she said suddenly, starting and putting a hand to her chest. "I haven't even offered you a midnight snack, or a nightcap…"
"Thank you. You are a...very, very generous hostess." Crowley rested a hand on his bloated belly beneath the table, and very much hoped that he hadn't severely misjudged which things he could actually say no to. "But I think I'll manage until the morning."
There was a rather tense few seconds as Mrs. Butters studied him, but then she nodded. "Of course, of course. Still full from dessert, are we? I'm sorry, I'm so used to feeding the boys. I suppose your appetite just isn't that big yet."
Yet. Crowley suppressed a shudder.
Of course it wasn't long after that that she asked the question he'd been dreading.
"Now, just what were you doing down here?" Mrs. Butters' eyes roamed curiously over the books and files Crowley had pulled out and had yet to put back. He'd assumed - very naively, he now realized - he could simply clean up later, that leaving them where they were wouldn't be a problem, that finding answers was more important than covering his tracks. "The contents of the archives don't seem like they'd make very good material for a little light reading before bed."
"Yes. Well." Crowley cast his eyes aimlessly around the table, hoping desperately for an excuse to pop into his head, slowly realizing it wasn't going to happen. Maybe it was the late hour, maybe it was the stress and the fear, maybe it was even the calorie overload. But nothing passable was coming to mind, and even if it had, he suddenly wasn't sure he could have sold it. He knew he'd been an excellent liar during his first life, but much like his natural magical ability, it seemed that was another thing he'd allowed to lapse as a demon.
The truth was going to be all he could manage. "I was doing research."
"Research?" Mrs. Butters frowned. "On what? Surely you don't think you need to hunt to be a guest in this bunker, Crowley - why, the boys haven't hunted in months, at least!"
She chuckled a little to herself, and Crowley swallowed.
"No, no, I know that. I was doing research on…" He sucked in a breath. "You."
"Me? Whyever for?" Mrs. Butters looked taken aback, but there was also undoubtedly something dangerous there. Crowley knew he was going to have to tread very carefully on this unstable ground.
"Simple curiosity." He spread his hands, doing his best to keep his face open, honest, and friendly, if tired. Looked like he was going to have to lie after all. "The Winchesters never mentioned you to me, but I also know they wouldn't have transplanted a wood nymph out of her forest so she could act as a living generator for the warding, which I take to mean you were 'dormant' or something similar when the two of them moved in, and only activated some time after my...hm. Unfortunate accident." He glanced down at the logbook in front of him. "You must admit it's interesting. How odd, for an esoteric secret society to bring in a supernatural being, especially one as powerful as yourself, and set it to work as essentially a housekeeper."
"Oh, they had their motivations," Mrs. Butters assured pleasantly. "They needed a renewable power source for some of the...heavier aspects of the warding, and I'm sure you can imagine the amount of work that builds up when several dozen single men live together for a certain period of time. Especially mid-century men." She winked at him. "They simply thought, why not kill two birds with one stone? And I'm quite glad they did!"
"You're...happy here," Crowley repeated. She definitely seemed it, but he found it odd. A wood nymph being actually happy when encased in iron and concrete.
"Of course I am. Tending to this place, protecting my charges?" She spread her arms. "Why, it's all I ever wanted, my raison d'être"
"There's nothing you'd...change?" Crowley pushed, very, very tentatively.
"Well. I did so hate it when they left, both back in the old days and more recently, but that's certainly not an issue anymore." Mrs. Butters chuckled, then grew a bit more wistful. "I suppose it was...a little more difficult in the beginning, yes. The very beginning. I did miss my forest. But things change, they must, and if you don't change with them, you'll break right in half, won't you? Besides, even the most unbearable states do eventually come to an end, and here we are. Practically like being home again, these days. Really home. With things as they were intended to be...for the most part."
Her eyes were soft, distant. She was obviously not seeing the bunker, or Crowley. He stayed completely still and silent until she shook herself out of it.
"Oh, my, just look at me, carrying on." She chuckled, embarrassed. "Anyway. I don't suppose, from how frustrated you seemed when I arrived, you've found any information on me?"
"No. I haven't."
"That doesn't surprise me in the slightest. It's a tragedy, all these holes in the records…" Mrs. Butters sighed. "But I suppose it can't be helped. With all the attacks this place has weathered." She glanced up, indicating the bunker. "Not anymore, though. I'm active, and more than strong enough to ward off all threats."
She smiled across the table at Crowley, and he forced himself to smile back.
"Of course, if you have any questions, dear, you can always come to me with them," she added after a moment, almost like an afterthought. "Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I am the world's leading authority on the subject of myself."
She beamed expectantly at him, and Crowley, realizing she was waiting for a question, shook his head.
"No, no. I believe you've...satisfied my curiosity for the night. Thank you." He forced another smile, then let out a very real yawn. "I ought to get to bed, anyway."
"Of course, of course." Mrs. Butters pushed herself up. "I'll see to that midnight snack."
Crowley could have sworn they'd tabled the possibility of a midnight snack with no ambiguity, but it didn't feel safe to point that out.
Days passed as if in a drunken stupor. Meals seemed to plot out the time more accurately he could, in their steady on-the-dot march from breakfast to lunch to dinner to dessert to midnight snack and all the spaced out snacks that practically counted as meals of their own in between.
And Crowley found himself partaking in all of it, more often than not, just out of general wariness of what could possibly happen should he prove to be recalcitrant in the eyes of Mrs. Butters.
But he continued to research, and he continued to try his phone because he felt as if he stopped with that he'd end up in no better state than the Winchesters themselves in short order,
And through it all there was the lingering thought that maybe that had been his mother's idea all along. It was validating in the worst of ways, even though when he really did ponder it he knew it wasn't likely.
If Rowena wanted him dealt with she quite literally had all the forces of Hell at her disposal.
But the thought- the consideration that she might have real, genuine love for him was almost worse than that validation, so he stuck with it anyways.
Having someone to prove wrong or to win against was better motivation than anything, to him.
He turned his focus from the records of the bunker to the books in its many libraries. Books and reports on monsters and non-human creatures, a very comprehensive and hopefully untampered record.
He even found vague mention of himself and the very lucky and extensive streak of deals he made in Boston in the early 20th century.
The work was hard given the constant necessitated breaks for food and grew ever harder throughout the day because of the sheer amount of food consumed in the breaks themselves.
But he was nothing if not good at parsing through paperwork. Following each cross-referenced rabbit hole to its conclusion and then starting the process over again. Mrs. Butters had even provided him with a pair of reading glasses, which it turned out he did very much need, but he didn't know what else to take away from the gesture other than unease.
And of course, through it all, he worked on the other inhabitants of the bunker. Trying to see what, if anything other than the food itself, might be stopping them from seeing their position for what it was.
The only problem was that they were all in the same room and the moment he made any sort of progress on one of them, another chimed in and sent him right back to square fucking one.
Pushing the issue with Sam (who seemed most likely to be open and accepting to it) prompted Dean's insistence that they were fine, and happy, and it's not like it was the end of the world anyways and they were safer here than hunting, et cetera et cetera. It was incredibly frustrating.
"You of all people should understand that being trapped in your own body is not a good thing. What if, god forbid, Sam, Lucifer were to come back? You have to see that this- 'safety' is straddling the razor's edge of disaster, especially given the propensity you all seem to have for triggering something apocalyptic." Crowley hissed.
Dessert had been cleared away; the five of them were about as alone as they could be and both Dean and Jack seemed to be down for the count under the weight of the toffee brownies and tiramisu and gallons of ice cream they'd muscled their ways through. Sam was close behind but still, thankfully, up for some sort of conversation.
Crowley never knew what to make of Castiel. Technically, the meals shouldn't affect him, he shouldn't even properly taste them, and the fact they did and he could were yet another source of concern.
Not that he was doing any better; practically two steps from slipping into a food coma in his allocated seat.
Sam was very obviously the best prospect, even as he squinted fuzzily at Crowley between little hiccups.
"Lucifer's...not coming back," he said slowly. Less like something he remembered, more just an internalized bit of knowledge. Or even a feeling. A wish. It took him a moment to dig up the reasoning behind it. "Jack took care of that." He nodded in his direction, what had once been a razor-sharp jawline sinking into the fat of multiple chins.
"Right, right." Crowley nodded, wrestling with his frustration. "Because no one in your life, friend or foe, has ever come back from the dead before."
Sam very slowly blinked, frowning, and Crowley brought a fist to his mouth to stifle a burp.
Much as it would have (and honestly, still would) pained him to admit it to them over the years, they had all been extraordinarily clever. With the possible exception of Jack, whom of course he'd never formally met before his untimely and very heroic death. Sam was the most stereotypically intelligent among them, but his brain seemed to be running rather slow lately. Maybe due to simple caloric overload, fatigue. Maybe something else entirely.
Crowley couldn't be entirely sure if they were bespelled. Obviously they were, all of them with the exception of Castiel were utterly sopping with support magic. Spells to keep important structures from being crushed. Digestive tracts from bursting. Organs from ceasing to function. Blood vessels from becoming blocked, skin from breaking down, lungs from becoming unable to expand…
He just couldn't quite tell if there were other spells at play to slow them down, keep them complacent. If there were, they were extremely subtle, would require a great deal more study to tease free, and he didn't like the implication there that they were woven into the life support, so that removing them would cause a quick and agonizing death.
Or maybe they'd been there in the past, and they simply weren't needed anymore. Maybe they'd never been needed at all. God knew everyone in this room was susceptible to gentle manipulation (again, with the possible exception of Jack), after having been broken down through brute force multiple times by demons, parents, angels, colleagues and superiors.
And Sam remained silent; brow creased with the Herculean effort of considering it all. "He could take care of it again." Couple (hundred) extra pounds or not, Jack was still a nephilim, and could still technically do everything he could before.
But even Sam had to know that wasn't quite right. That power didn't mean aptitude, that the fact Jack, if he deigned to stand, would be using so much of his power and focus just to keep himself from collapsing back down again that he'd be useless. That all of them were, in this state, useless.
But Sam didn't think about that long at all simply because he didn't like to, and because he was too tired and too full to do anything about it. He tended to save these intrusive thoughts to be dealt with in the morning- by which point he either somehow forgot about them or he still felt like it was no use bothering. He'd spent so much of his life bothering about things like this, concerns about what if or what could be or what was happening right then-
And didn't they deserve a break? Didn't he, after everything, deserve a fucking break? The war on God was abandoned, the end of the world, on God's part, seemed abandoned or at least sidelined, and even if it was still going on out there they couldn't exactly squeeze out through the front door for a confrontation.
"You really think that?" Crowley asked, in earnest. "Look at him. No- really look at him, Sam, and tell me he could put a stop to bloody anything if he wanted to. He couldn't. Look down at yourself and tell me you're in any sort of position to do anything. This isn't a break, this entire thing reeks of wrongness. It's giving up in the middle of the belly of the beast and laying down to die. Because that's what you'd be doing if there was an ounce less of protective magic on you. If-" And he lowered his voice, because he was nearly to the point of shouting- "-If she wasn't here."
Because the spells weren't simply for health and longevity. They couldn't be- there was comfort and waste management; pain relief, and… there had to be something mental about it. If there wasn't, Crowley found himself doubting if there was any hope at all.
"Can you honestly tell me you're happy like this?" Crowley's gaze kept flickering to the entryway and back again. "You, Sam Winchester, who went on runs for the endorphins more than the health benefits, this- this makes you happy? This is your contented retirement? Looking like a title-card for 'My 600 Pound' bloody 'Life'? When's the last time you saw yourself? Looked in a mirror?"
"Crowley-"
"It's a yes or no question, Sam. Are you happy like this, or not?"
Sam frowned. Crowley watched him intently, waiting for an answer. When it came, it was not the one he'd been hoping for.
"Of course I'm happy," Sam answered, and it sounded honest. A jaw-cracking yawn kept him from continuing for a second. "I don't get...why you don't want me to be. Why you seem so determined to ruin this for us. Just 'cause it's not what I wanted, what we wanted, or what you think we should want, that doesn't make it bad. I'm home, my family's here, they're safe. I don't care if it's not perfect, it's what I want. It's all I've ever wanted." He eyed Crowley for a second, then sighed through his nose. "Or maybe I do get it. If you hate it so much, Crowley, why don't you just leave? I'm not gonna stop you."
That wrung a dry, bloodless chuckle out of Crowley.
"Leave. Of course. What a novel idea, Sam." He took a breath, readjusted. "We can't - " He paused. "Sam?"
He leaned forward, snapped his fingers in front of the younger Winchester's face a few times. No reaction. Looked like he'd well and truly lost him for the night. Settling back, Crowley heaved a deep sigh.
He supposed he ought to try and look on the bright side. The very phrase was obnoxious, set his teeth on edge; most likely because of how many times he'd heard it from his mother. But the fact remained that this was the most alert he'd ever seen Sam, seen any of them, and the longest, most in-depth conversation he'd managed to have since he arrived that hadn't been with Mrs. Butters.
And Sam had admitted that things weren't perfect, that he hadn't wanted this. The only thing Crowley could do was hope that it was a step in the right direction.
Once again, he automatically checked the doorway. No sign of Mrs. Butters. And yet again, he wished his soul had retained at least a bit of its tarnish when Rowena fished it out of the Empty, that that sentient tarpit hadn't sucked every last one of his powers from him. He wasn't naive enough to think it would have kept him from being tangled in the snare that the entire bunker had become, not with both Castiel and Jack caught, but he would have at least had an easier time telling when she was coming.
"Crowley."
It wasn't her voice. Too gravelly, too masculine. Crowley's shoulders jolted practically up around his ears anyway, though he would have thought he was too full to be currently so high-strung.
"Castiel," he said, turning towards him. His blue eyes looked nearly black in the dim light. He hadn't thought he was still awake; no one else was, obviously.
"You've gained weight," Castiel observed, and Crowley let out a long, slow sigh.
"Yes. I wonder how that could have happened," he deadpanned.
"For what it's worth," Castiel told him, "I'm sorry you got involved in this. I didn't know you were alive, but if I had, I would have preferred to keep you...out."
Crowley studied him for a long second, before simply going for it: "There's something wrong here, then? And you know it."
Castiel appeared to choose his next words very carefully, after looking around at Sam, Dean, and Jack.
"I can see how it wouldn't seem...ideal, from an outside perspective," he acknowledged, "but we really are very happy here. With her." His attention returned to Crowley. "You should leave. If you can figure out a way to. I think you have a chance. By the time I was aware enough to try, it was largely already too late." His mouth twitched in something that might have been a guilty grimace. "And I had been a willing and active participant - enabler - from when I first returned."
Crowley was silent, appraising Castiel.
Not what he had been expecting from him, admittedly. But he could acknowledge it did make sense, in many, many ways. Interesting to know, if he was interpreting this correctly, that at least some of what he was surrounded by was Castiel's handiwork, and he had to wonder how exactly it had happened. The tables turning so catastrophically on him.
"Trust me, Cas, the second I can figure out how to leave, I will," Crowley promised. "And then I suppose I'll be back for the rest of you lot, eventually...this brand-new bleeding heart of mine, it's a pain in the ass, trust me." His eyes roamed over Castiel's body, then those of the others. "Once we get this all sorted out. I think you owe them all a conversation."
It was difficult to tell in the dark, with human eyes, but he believed Castiel might be blushing. The seraph cleared his throat.
"I don't suppose you could get me another milkshake," he said quietly, nodding towards the empty sitting on a nearby tray. Crowley shook his head.
"Just because you were - or are - willing to feed your fellows doesn't mean I am, Castiel. Can't you get it yourself?"
Out of all of them, Castiel was the only one Crowley knew of that was still semi-mobile. He hadn't seen him move much, but he could move. When he wanted to. Of course, that probably required less weight than was currently bloating out his overfed gut.
Sure enough, Castiel regretfully shook his head. Imploringly, he said, "Please." Then, "You could use the exercise."
Crowley scoffed at that. "Oh - so we're playing that game then, are we?"
Nevertheless, he knew Castiel was right, so he struggled to his feet, and tried to ignore the gurgling of his own overburdened belly as he waddled down to the kitchen.
It was there, trying to parse out the various milkshake ingredients (she'd turned an entire counter into a damn milkshake bar, unsurprising considering how many Castiel and Jack appeared to go through on a day-to-day basis), that Crowley began composing other questions to ask Castiel in his head. Maybe he'd hold the milkshake as payment until he answered them. Why he was able to eat the food, why it made him gain weight, what spells he could see at work on the others, as an angel -
They all evaporated at a tap on his shoulder.
Crowley whirled. Or would have, if he hadn't been quite so weighed down. As it was, it was more of an awkward circular shuffle to see Mrs. Butters, standing there with a pleasant smile on her face.
"There you are," she said. "I believe it's time you and I had a talk, dear."
Crowley had felt stress many times in his very long life. But it was unbelievable, really, just how much dread managed to sink in the pit of his stomach with just those ten words.
It rivaled the time he'd heard the hounds baying for him, slow and drunk and already half dead and unable to do anything but wait for them to tear into him. It was certainly up there with all the times he'd gone toe to toe with Lucifer; feeling the grace, corrupted as it was, of the brightest star in heaven straining against his infernal being.
And this dread, this anxiety, did nothing but redouble and expand and grow without halt even as he found himself sitting in the library across from Mrs. Butters like a child sitting in front of their principal's desk.
He swallowed. "Like I said before. I believe we owe each other a certain degree of honesty, here."
"I'm sure you do." She smiled, tilted her head just a little. "Please, Crowley, dear- have some of your tea. Calm down. I can see… just how stressed you are, it's rather alarming." There was kindness, there, woven through her tone, though her reassuring smile didn't quite reach her eyes, this time.
"No- no. I'm quite alright." The tea, chamomile, and the fresh-baked bread with butter and preserves would have been a readily accepted comfort in any other day, in any other situation, and it was surely a temptation now but he would far rather be on edge than to let his guard down. "Look: Mrs. Butters. I can see that I am no longer welcome. I would like to leave, get out of your hair. Surely you can afford me at least that." Leave, get help, come back, sort all this out, and be done with taking his mother's suggestions for the rest of his regretfully human life.
"No longer welcome?" Mrs. Butters' tone was mild. She didn't sound as shocked as she might have in the first...weeks? How long had he been here? "Can I ask why you'd feel that way?"
Crowley almost asked her if she was joking, thought better of it.
The tea, the bread. They were almost overwhelmingly tempting.
"You know you don't want me here," he began. "I'm an unknown quantity. I've been threatening to become a wrench in your machinery since the very first day, we both know it." And it wasn't as if he hadn't been actively trying. "You're getting tired of my antics, and I don't blame you. If I leave, I'll be out of your hair permanently. You have my word."
His word wasn't, and never had been, worth all that much. He could only hope that Mrs. Butters wasn't aware of that fact.
She chuckled in response, almost fondly, and shook her head.
"You know, Crowley, I might have considered it, if you were still a demon," she commented. "You've been nearly as difficult as Samuel was, and I'm sure you can imagine how deeply he dug his heels in. Stubborn as a mule, that one." She eyed him, smiling. "But we're being honest with each other, aren't we? If you left, you wouldn't be out of my hair, as you put it, for long at all. You love them all too much. Maybe you did even before your little...transformation."
The use of the L-word had Crowley's mouth curling automatically into a sneer, even though he was terribly aware that it was much more accurate than he would have preferred it to be.
"So I'm afraid I must implore you to stay," Mrs. Butters summed up.
"Why are you doing this?" Crowley asked, voice raw and reactive.
She tilted her head a bit. He knew he'd be getting another non-answer. But then, to his surprise, she asked him, "How much do you know about nymphs, Crowley?"
"Ah." He was caught off-guard, and finally reached for the tea. What could it hurt? He was thirsty. "Of the...North American variety? Not much, I'm afraid." Just sardonically enough that he was aware it was dangerous, he added, "The library doesn't have much material."
"Yes." Mrs. Butters smiled. "Like I said, many holes. Most unfortunate." She took a breath. "See, we nature spirits, wood nymphs especially, we are wells of power. Deep wells. Something the Men of Letters saw fit to harness."
Crowley nodded. "They saw fit to do a lot of things."
"Innovators, every single one of them." Mrs. Butters nodded, as well. "A forest that contains one of us will be positively bursting with bounty. Fruit, game, honey. We provide for any human communities that may be nearby, and in exchange, when someone gets a bit too greedy, they're ours. To feed and care for until they reach a certain size, and then...well. Meat makes an excellent fertilizer, and fat. Not to mention all the predators and scavengers that need to feed...our power comes from the entire ecosystem, after all." She took a deep breath. "That won't happen here. It can't, it's not a forest, and the Men of Letters were very strict in my bindings, and Samuel - Dean - Castiel - Jack - why, perhaps even you, Crowley. I wouldn't want to do such a thing."
His hands were numb on the teacup. Dimly, he realized it was empty.
"I wanted...a way to ensure they would be safe." She frowned to herself. "To care for them. The ones who came before, I couldn't do anything, they all - " Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Mrs. Butters closed her eyes, and was silent for several seconds. "I was. At a loss, for quite some time. After all, they left, so often, going out there into that awful world, and I couldn't stop them. Until I saw Dean eat, one day. Glut himself, really." She chuckled. "That awakened some long-buried instincts. Made me realize what I had to do. And since I've been, well, rewired slightly, to feed off contentment and happiness rather than a thriving forest, it's a bit of a…" She moved a finger in a circle. "Positive feedback loop."
"I see," Crowley said, setting his teacup slowly down. "Explains a lot."
Mrs. Butters nodded. After a moment, she went on.
"The more of you there are here, the more powerful I am, and the better I can take care of you," she said reasonably. "Do you understand why I can't let you go, Crowley? For their sake?"
He said nothing, but he did allow a little more of his willpower to be chipped away, reaching for the bread.
"They're happy," she said, then, more firmly, "They're happy. They'll never be in any danger, here. They'll never want for anything. No pain, no strife, no death, no loss together with each other and me here for eternity."
Only the fact Crowley's mouth was full kept him from bleakly scoffing.
"You could be happy too, if you let yourself." She laced her fingers together, rested her chin on them. "Crowley. Dear. Don't tell me you've never thought about it, being cared for. Looked after. Every need tended to." She straightened. "Don't tell me you've never thought about...a mother."
Crowley looked at Mrs. Butters. "Rattled" seemed too light a word to describe how he was feeling. For a long, long moment, they simply held each other's eyes, a new understanding between them.
Mrs. Butters broke it with a bright smile.
"I'd better get you some more tea, hadn't I? Looks like you're out."