Don't feed after Midnight
Chapter 7: Talking at cross purposes
"Seriously? Me, seriously? We just shared a foxhole, you and I. We beat back the Tet Offensive, outrun the -the Rape of Nanjing, together! And still you're gonna do me like this?!
'…..Band of Brothers'? 'The Pacific'? None of this means anything to you? All those motels, you never once watched HBO, not once?"
Crowley remembered his shock and irritation that the boy would just continue, as if nothing meaningful had happened between them.
The frustration he'd felt, being unable to get Sam to see, to make him understand.
"'Girls'? You're my Marnie, Moose. A-and Hannah, she just, she needs to be loved. She deserves it. Don't we all - you, me - we deserve to be loved.
I deserve to be loved!
…I just want to be loved."
"What?" Sam had responded completely nonplused.
Looking back, Crowley remembered the wave of shock and confusion he'd felt in that moment.
That those words, those emotions had come bubbling out of his mouth and his cold, dead, demonic heart.
Was that the moment he had begun to believe, that it was possible? A cure for what he was..
Crowley flinched, shifting fitfully in the hard chair the Winchester's had chained him too.
Memory of his experiences in the church still reverberated through his mind, like an acid flashback; no matter how hard he'd tried to push it aside, or expunge it.
"Would it be possible, Moose...I'd like...to ask you a-a favor, Sam. Earlier, when you were confessing back there...what did you say? I only ask because, given my history...it raises the question... Where do I start...to even look for… forgiveness? I mean..."
"How about we start with this?" Sam had answered, holding out the syringe, full of blood.
And then…
He'd tilted his head to the side in submission, taken the injection as meekly as a lamb.
Almost eager…. He'd been almost eager.
The thought of it now, made him sick to his hijacked stomach.
How weak, how pathetic, how laughably ineffectual he'd sounded, in front of his enemy….
His enemy?
Yes, damn it! His damn enemy!
Once you were a demon, you came to see people more clearly. They were useful tools; nice suits to be worn, sheep to be slaughtered or shorn.
Or they failed to meet those criterion and were your enemies.
Yet, there had been a moment… when Abbadon had tossed Sam through the window….
He had felt a touch dismayed, something akin to concern for the boy's welfare.
"That'll do. Undo these. I'll kill him myself." He'd ordered, but that hadn't been his real plan, had it? No.
He'd read Carver Edlund's trashy books; maybe that was part of the problem.
Because of those books, he'd glimpsed events with Lucifer from a different viewpoint.
Come to think of the Winchester's as more than mere walking meatsuits, tools to be used and manipulated by older, cleverer puppet masters.
One was unwise to underestimate them, despite their humanity… If you did… Well, it got you tossed in the cage, exploded into black goop, or chained to a chair, didn't it?
The Winchester's were more than meat; they'd been elevated to worthy adversaries.
Two individuals that had faced off with all in sundry, and survived. They'd earned a touch of respect. One didn't simply off a Winchester. That ginger scag wasn't educated enough to realise such things.
Besides they kept an otherwise dull game interesting… and a King needed his diversions.
Maybe, there had been seeds of a plan forming as he spoke to Abbadon … something built on dissatisfaction and envy.
Demons were by very nature disloyal, fickle. Always ready to stab one in the back, the moment you turned around.
What he wanted, what he deserved, was more than that… something reliable, something or someone he could let down his guard around, if he so desired.
A partner in crime. An individual capable of looking at him the way the Winchester brothers looked at each other… Not out of fear or as a rung on the infernal power ladder, but as something more…
"Sammy...come on. I killed Benny to save you. I'm willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed mom walk because of you. Don't you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you! It has never been like that, ever! I need you to see that. I'm begging you."
Dean's little declaration to Sam in the church, it was sentimental rubbish, sappy … but it had still made him wistful. Brought to light a long repressed desire.
The seed of this idea had barely germinated in the church, it hadn't found any kind of shape, before Abbadon upped and showed her colours, with all the gall of one of her kind.
The whore had turned on him, her King and rightful ruler!
Laid hands on him.
Put the boot in, while he was trussed and helpless.
Proving his point entirely!
He couldn't trust anyone, especially his subjects.
No finess, no intelligence, no gratitude! That was demons for you.
But then, Samuel had appeared, doused the scag with holy oil, set her ablaze.
For a moment there, he'd felt like one of the Winchester brothers girls of the week.
Weak kneed and moist. Staring up at his great big bloody hero, with his hijacked heart going pitter-pat at the broad shoulders and extravagant hair, all backlit by dramatic flame.
It had been such a cinematic moment.
He'd lost his head, in the heat of the situation. All that blood Moose had been pumping into him made him mushy.
"You did good back there, Moose. I'll deny it if you ever quote me, but I'm proud man.
I'm proud of you."
He wanted to tell himself it had all been a ploy, a scheme to get Samuel to let his guard down.
A clever manipulation, nothing more. A left field manuver to unbalance the hunter, no different than biting him to procure that mouthful of blood for his infernal transmission.
He could almost believe that… almost.
But, in his black heart of hearts Crowley knew.
His pre-concecrated- blood, exemplar, demonic self would never have ever conceived of such a sentiments.
Nor perhaps, the plan that he found himself toying with now, a distraction from remembering how incoherent and emotional he'd been.
Blabbing on about shared fox holes, HBO, trashy melodramas. Wanting to be loved, being uncertain how to seek forgiveness?
Looking back on it now, it all made him cringe.
Instead he contemplated the idea Abbadon's defection had distracted him from forming.
Could he find a way to subvert and harness the Winchester's for himself. Make one suitably compliant, subservient… needy. Useful.
Get one out of the way somehow. Offer the other a lure of revenge. The books and history told him the bereaved individual would latch onto anything to cope with his loss.
Ruby had done it for a time hadn't she? She'd hardly been the sharpest tool in the shed.
Still, she did have a number of attributes his current meatsuit lacked.
Why hadn't he thought to use Deans little vacation in purgatory? Little birdies told him, Samantha had ended up shacking up with the first bird he ran across. A shrew of a veterinarian with very few redeeming qualities, by all accounts.
All because Samantha hit a stray dog, was forced to stop running from his loss.
Would it be possible to engineer another parting of ways? Employ something similar to Ruby's game plan? Reignite Samantha's demon blood addiction …
A sound tickled Crowley from his musings.
The sound of fluid dripping and trickling, increasing steadily in volume and tempo by the moment.
Cocking his head, he looked towards the door of his chamber.
Watched dampness finger under the door and begin to spread over the floor towards the altered devils trap.
Pulling at his chains, Crowley sat up straighter, flaring his nostrils.
The substance smelt like water, but of course, for something like him there were certain species of water best avoided.
Squirming, he tested the shackles around his ankles for the thousandth time. Reasserted that he was held fast by the warding and the shackles themselves, couldn't even move his testoni's off the floor.
He held his breath, listened intently once more, searching for the sounds of breathing and heartbeats beyond the doors to his prison.
The Winchester's wouldn't be far.
But he heard nothing, except for the increasing trickle of water.
Clearing his throat, he watched the liquid trickle closer.
"Really boys, when I asked for a drink, this wasn't what I had in mind. Surely even two uncouth Neanderthals such as yourselves possess a cup or drinking glass." He called out, voice shaded with coaxing, hoping his insults would raise some sort of reaction from his captors, encourage them to show themselves.
Still nothing.
"Is this some budget form of Chinese water torture, then?" He tried once more, wondering exactly what sort of scheme the Winchester's had cooked up to break him.
"Hate to break it to you Darlings, but the whole Chinese water torture thing… it's a myth. Now water boarding… that's real, and lots of fun. Doesn't work on demons though, my kind, not strictly requiring breath and all that furore.
Really boys I expected better!"
Still nothing.
This was completely unacceptable, Crowley fumed silently to himself.
What was the point of this game?
Where was the human touch?
The bedside manner.
Alistair had taught Dean better than this!
It had to be One of Sam-bloody-Winchester's attempts to keep his big brother's hands clean.
All this waiting, all this anticipation, for what? Some kind of bloody, hands free system? And a sloppy one at that!
Crowley bared his teeth in irritation, snarled and spat into the oncoming tide to show his contempt.
He was Crowley, King of Hell, not some third-rate flunky.
The water crept still closer, following the warding lines, he tried to pull his feet away once more, but to no avail.
With a hissing breath of anticipation and a toothy grin, he watched the water come.
It pooled around his hand made Italian leather shoes, wicked up the leather to finding purchase in the stitching.
He waited.
The pain and gouts of steam he anticipated never came.
The liquid made its way through the cervelt socks he'd imported from New Zealand and met with the flesh of a moderately successful litarary agent out of New York.
He felt nothing! Nothing but the mild discomfort of sitting with his feet in a puddle of slightly chilly tap water.
The glob of spit floated languidly over to him like a lost puppy. He kicked out at it in irritation, but that simply made it adhere to the fine Italian leather of his Tesoni loafer.
From somewhere beyond the place he was being held, a series of clattering bangs echoed down to him.
Crowley flinched and lifted his eyes towards the ceiling.
"Oi, Moose, Squirrel What the blazing hell are you up to out there." He hollered, voice raised higher in agitation.
The only answer was another series of clattering bangs, more water, and more silence.
Finally, after 10 long minutes, growing more and more irritated by the dampness, crawling it's way up from his ruined loafers and socks. Up the pant legs of his cashmere Armani suit, towards his hijacked family jewels.
The doors to his dungeon slid open and in slunk Dean Winchester. Kurdish demon killing blade in hand.
"Finally!" He spat in irritation.
"What did you do?!" The neathandral demanded.
Crowley felt an eyebrow raise in surprise.
"What did I do?" he asked shifting in the chair to make the chains that bound him rattle for effect. "You've had me shackled down here in the dark for days, unable to so much as scratch my nose. And now you come storming down here into my fetid dungeon and ask what I've done?"
Dean grunted, "pretty much. Common tactic with you assholes. Flood the place, screw with the warding."
Crowley tilted his head and rolled his eyes. "And what would that achieve here pray-tell? Exactly nothing!"he spat "Nothing except destroying a pair of bespoke, handmade Italian leather shoes, and these socks! They're cervelt! Dry clean only! Do you know how much an outfit like this costs!"
"Blah blah boohoo, did his highness get his shoesies wet. Seriously? What kind of douchbag wears dry clean only socks? Excuse me if I don't believe you or care."
Dean gripped his knife tighter, stepping closer to jerk roughly at the chains holding him, made sure they were still fastened.
Grunted in puzzlement.
"Forgive me if I don't get up."
"You did this," Dean kicked his boots throug the pooling water around his feet. "What I wanna know is how and why."
"Why? Don't we all Darling?
And why must you always blame the demon, Dean? Did you ever stop to consider it mightn't be me, surely you know these stylish accessories put a lid on all of my considerable powers.
Ever think that maybe, this is the work of your other visitor."
"Kevin?"
"Kevin Tran?" Crowley asked in surprise, before he could stop himself, "the prophet is here?
Interesting." The muscles bunched in Dean's jaw, Crowley stopped himself from persuing further, being diverted, despite his interest in the traitorous little prophet.
"No, I meant your other guest."
"There is no other guest!" Dean barked, then glanced nervously towards the door.
Interesting.
"I assure you there is Dean." He purred.
"Shut your face. If you breath a word about Zeke to Sam," the hunter hissed "I'll gut you where you sit. Are we clear?!"
"And who would this Zeke be Dean. A new boyfriend perhaps? Finally started batting for the other team have we? Or is that catching? No need to be shy, I'm sure little brother is open minded. Unless that's not it, unless this Zeke has another purpose, are you keeping secrets from little brother ag—"
Dean punched him in the face.
Crowley smiled up in satisfaction at the hunter, bloody toothed. Licked his lips.
"If you know what's good for you you'll keep your goddamn mouth shut.
Last warning." Dean stabbed the demon blade down into his thigh. Hard and fast. "Got that?" He snarled down into Crowleys face, jerking the blade out of the meat again.
Sparks and agony flared from the wound, forcing a scream from Crowley's throat.
After the pain abated, Crowley blinked his eyes clear and stared up at his captor through lowered lashes, breathless and truly alive for one moment. Licked his lips again in anticipation.
"Dean?" Sam's voice came from a distance. Dean jerked back and glanced over his shoulder.
"Not a word, you hear me?"
Dean gritted and swung on his heel storming out.
"… Yeah Sammy, I'm here. Kevin okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. Uhhh man, you won't guess what it was…" Sam laughed a tad apologetically, "I set the washer going earlier… turns out there was a sock jammed in the drain."
"Guess you got some cleanup to do then, bitch."
"Crowley still secure?"
"Yeah, king of the douches is whining 'bout how his dry clean only socks got ruined. Who knew there was such shit, talk about impractical."
"…. Guess there's an up side to everything huh?"
"Yeah," Dean's laugh echoed hollowly from above, "I'll grab a mop, cleanup the archive room down here. Crowley'll dry out eventually."
Squirming in thwarted anticipation Crowley discovered that the cold and damp had reached his Derek Rose boxers, he could feel the silk beginning to warp and sag against his meat, as he sat there, waiting once again.
"Bollocks!"