Don't Feed After Midnight
Chapter 3:
Crowley lifted his head and looked around sucking a lungful of air through his vessel's teeth.
Something had changed!
He'd been stashed in the Winchester's bondage dungeon for a while now.
At first, he'd thought it was an improvement on being trussed up in the boot of their antique gas guzzler.
But wherever this was, it had been warded up the wazoo, not with hastily scrawled spray paint or chalk devil's traps, something he could have conceivably worked his way out of with the help of a conveniently leaky water pipe.
This warding, Crowley had to grudgingly admit, was a real work of art; made of what appeared to be magnetite inlaid into the marble flooring.
He'd never seen the likes of it before, and that was saying something, he'd made it his business to become cognizant with all manner of wardings and sigils, even before becoming King.
At first, he'd held out a sliver of hope, one of his less moronic (and more scheming) underlings had decided to go behind his back. Had ignored his blanket embargo on Stateside visitations, and followed him, spying on the King's activities was a favorite pastime of the riffraff.
He could perhaps hope said clever, scheming underling might conceivably tail the Winchester's from the church to wherever the Hardy boys new club house was located; and what he'd felt just now, heralded a daring rescue on the offing.
But the King of Hell set the hope aside.
For all the muffling effect of the dungeons wardings, the shiver of power he had just felt running its fingers down his spine hadn't felt heavenly, but wasn't wholly demonic, either.
Which begged the question, what were Rocky and Bullwinkle up to?
The most likely culprit would be Dean, Crowley decided.
There had been something rather wrong with ol' Moose in the church.
Something not explained by blood loss or a common cold.
Dean had appeared just as Sam had been about to finish the cure, and made an impassioned plea for his brother to stand down and not finish the trials;
Used that special brand of Winchester codependency and emotional blackmail Crowley had come to adore. Dean said curing Crowley, finishing the third trial and closing the gates of hell would have required the ultimate sacrifice. And of course, Dean, couldn't bare that.
Being left alone, without Samantha to hold his hand; nothing was worth that to Dean, even shutting the gates of Hell!
Crowley suspected stopping the younger Winchester from reaching completion hadn't saved or fixed Moose like Deano had hoped.
Just postponed the inevitable.
After being bound, gagged and tossed in the trunk, Crowley had heard Winchester the elder's voice raised in panic. Talking about hospitals, trials and angels falling…
There'd been a period of driving at breakneck speed.
Then, a flurry of activity, and for a period of approximately a day, neither Winchester had come near the car. Leaving Crowley to fall into an almost dream like state. Wracked by a rising tide of thoughts, memories, foreign sensations and feelings, that had made him wonder disquietingly if Moose was the only one potentially not back to factory settings after the cease and desist.
The Winchester's had left him there, prey to his traitorous mind, trussed up like the proverbial Christmas turkey.
Ambient sounds of ambulances, sirens, people and vehicles had filtered into the car's trunk, led Crowley to guess he'd spent those hours parked in close proximity to a hospital, though which one he didn't know.
Then at some point Dean had returned, to ask if he was alive, (such touching concern.) There'd been a scuffle of some sort, by the sound of things it had involved more than one individual (? presumably, evicted overwrought angels?) demanding Castiel's location in less than friendly tones.
Not long after that there'd been a white flare and an angelic death scream.
At another guess, Dean had dispatched said deportee post haste.
A while later, the dynamic duo returned.
That time there'd been two sets of footsteps, so presumably, Moose was once again moving under his own steam. They had been accompanied by a shimmering cloud of ozone scent, that advertised "angelic healing," in screaming neon, to something with Crowley's demonic senses.
Puzzlingly, they hadn't returned accompanied by the expected third set of footsteps, or the graveled voice of Castiel, nor were there any indicators of the angel's presence in the back seat of the Winchester's Chevy.
More driving had ensued, of which Crowley had grown heartily weary.
He hadn't been able to fathom how long, or in what direction they drove, continuing for several days, with several stops.
The trunk opened only once, and both Winchesters' had gawked at him for a bit.
Sam was seemingly surprised he was still alive, had been more than willing to fix the oversight then and there.
Dean however hadn't been in a hurry to dispatch him, claimed to want to pump him information.
Possibly, he was quietly considering the option of finding someone other than little brother to make the ultimate sacrifice and close the gates of 's narrow miss with humanity-reprised, could be merely a postponement rather than a cancellation?
They'd then shoved a bag over his head and a pair of earmuffs over his ears, disorientated him further took away what little sensory cues he had left.
Another interminable length of drive-time.
They'd reached this destination and Jollygreen had marched him down endless metal steps and along echoing corridors, dropped him off in this cell...
Moose seemed strong enough, and still had stunk to high heaven of angelic ozone, but underneath that, Crowley had smelled something else.
A smell that reminded him nostalgically of Dr. Emil Gelny's work at Mauer-Öhling. The scent of psychiatric patients fried from the inside out, having undergone fatal doses of electroshock therapy courtesy of the Third Reich.
Dean seemed distracted, and Samantha smelled all wrong. Dean often had multiple plans on standby, if he suspected Castiel's angel powers hadn't been up to snuff, it would explain why he'd been stored away for later...
If Sam wasn't healed, frantic attempts to fix Moose's little trial induced issue would follow, as sure as night followed day.
All that could explain the little jolt of whatever it was he had just felt.
Perhaps a healing spell of some sort.
Crowley doubted simple spell work would fix what Castiel couldn't.
Once Dean ruled out other, less palatable options to save his nearest and dearest, it would only be a matter of time before Crowley could expect a visitation.
That would be the reason Dean Winchester hadn't spiked him with an angel blade or Kurdish demon knife, perhaps he hoped to obtain names of Crowley's earth side operatives like he'd claimed earlier in front of Samantha.
But Crowley figured that wouldn't be the real power play. He was the card up Deans sleeve.
Still it wasn't like Dean to be such a tease.
To talk of the of torture, then simply up and leave a girl all ready and wanting, like he had.
Being left untouched in the Winchester's little bondage dungeon, stewing in her own juices was disappointing...
Dean never struck him as one to tease and not put out, if rumors were to be believed he was a man of action not words...
Dean ought to have broken out the holy water, salt and stabby things by now.
Disappointing really, in his current position as King, Crowley rarely got an opportunity to switch things up. Dean had been Alistair's star apprentice, and Samantha had been tortured by the devil himself.
Both Winchester brothers were bound to have a whole host of titillating little tricks up their sleeves that could make playtime educational for all parties.
The King of Hell licked his lips and fidgeted impatiently, making his chains rattle.
"Deannnn. Deannnnn…. Samantha….. Anyone? Anyone at all?!" He called out hoping for a response.
"Seriously boys a little bit of anticipation is one thing, heightens the excitement. Delayed gratification and all that... But this… this is just — dull!"
There was no reply.
How long were they going to leave him down here?
Somewhere, far off, water pipes groaned, and a door slammed.
Weirdly the sound of running water tickled something inside of him, a momentary sensation of thirst, something he hadn't experience in hundreds of years.
"Oi! You boys have heard of the Geneva convention, surely!" He yelled once again.
"Fair and just treatment of prisoners of war, ring any bells?
Would it kill you to get a man a drink?" He bellowed.
More silence replied.
Then suddenly the door to his boudoir slid open a crack, and an eye peered in through the gap.
Intriguing!
Crowley tilted his head in consideration. "Well well, you are definitely not who I was expecting." He murmured, levelling his most charming smile upon his barely glimpsed visitor.
"Sadly, I'm a little tied up right now, but don't let that put you off. I do so enjoy making new acquaintances, hearing interesting tales. Do tell, who are you, what is this fascinating place?"
The eye blinked at him once through the gap, but there was no reply.
"Don't be shy." He coaxed. "Tell you what, I'll go first shall I? The name's Crowley, King of Hell."
From the other side of the door his guest made a disbelieving or disparaging sound.
"Oh, don't let my stylish accessories fool you friend. I am the King, and I'd be most happy to prove it once we get more acquainted, if you could perhaps see your way clear to simply—"
The door to his cell creaked shut, followed shortly after by the sound of retreating footsteps.
"Bollocks! —"