Don't Feed After Midnight
Chapter 28 : Run, boy, run (this race is a prophecy)
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"Seriously how is she even still ticking, are you sure you Kentucky fried her meatsuit?"
"Yes Dean, for the hundredth time, I'm sure I doused Abbadon in holy oil and set her on fire. No Dean, I don't know how her meatsuit is completely unscathed in that surveillance footage. Obviously, knights of Hell aren't our usual run of the mill black eyed demon."
"You think!"
Sam rolled his eyes at his brother. "Crowley can heal his meat suit, so it stands to reason, Abbadon probably can too. Josie Sands was a man— woman of letters. For what ever reason Abbadon must be attached to her body, it's kind of a theme with the higher up demons, look at Crowley."
Dean grunted, eyes on the road.
"I think we ought to be more worried about those demon's swapping out their meat suits for trained military…" Restlessly Sam began to look through the other recent police reports in the area. His eyes snagged on a John Doe, an apparent suicide found hanging from an over bridge that morning.
It was Pete, Sam didn't remember his last name (had he ever known it?) but what he did remember was that the man was a hunter. One who used to turn up at Bobby's from time to time with a bottle of whiskey and overblown tales of his hunting exploits. Bobby always said Pete was good, careful and driven. That he had an ex-wife and two kids that kept him more grounded than most hunters, even if the ex-wife was remarried and he only saw the kids a few weeks each summer. Pete wasn't the type to go looking for an out at the end of a rope.
"Dean, it's Pete." He held the autopsy photo of Pete's body out to his brother. "I don't think Pete would—."
"Sonofabitch!" Dean slammed his fists against the impala's wheel. They were both thinking the same thing, this wasn't a coincidence.
Just then Dean's phone started ringing from the bench seat between them. Sam picked up, answering it before Dean could, and put it on speaker phone.
It was Kevin, speaking at a hundred miles an hour, talking about a woman calling on one of the burner phones. Repeating a bunch of names.
One of them was Abbadon.
"Kevin, wait wait wait. Slow down." He broke in.
"She gave me these coordinates. 44.053051 by -123.127860," Kevin said again like he was a pre-recorded message, "and two names. Irv Franklin and Tracy Bell.".
"Irv's a friend, don't know Tracy." Dean muttered face grim.
Sam found his eyes drawn down to the photo of Pete's dead body, urgently started typing the coordinates into his gps.
"Alright," Kevin breathed from the phone, sounding fractionally calmer, "the lady said they were hunters, and that if you didn't go save them, that she would kill them."
"Yeah, I've heard that song before." Dean said, his face hard.
"Dean," Kevin's voice came from the phone again. "Who was she?"
They exchanged a glance across the car.
"She's the bad guy." Dean told him. "Alright, new job, dig up everything the Men of Letters have on Knights of Hell."
"Knights of Hell"? Kevin seemed to hesitate a moment. "—Sure."
"You find a way to kill one, I mean permanently," Dean spoke through gritted teeth, "drop a dime."
"Thanks, Kevin." As he hung up, Sam was glad Kevin was miles away, safe in the bunker, and that he hadn't let Dean check out Irv's demon signs alone. If only Irv had followed Dean's advice, and left well enough alone. "Okay, the numbers point to a spot on the outskirts of Eugene, Oregon." He said finally, looking up from his phone. Dean's jaw was clenched, his face stormy; probably blaming himself for Abbadon's escape, Pete's death and what ever was happening to Irv and the female hunter they'd never met. "You know this is a trap, right?"
"Yep." Dean didn't look away from the road, his fingers flexed restlessly on the impala's wheel like he wanted to hit something.
"And we're just gonna walk right into it?" He asked, though he knew the answer.
"Guns blazing." Dean agreed, finally glancing across at him. "You with me?"
Sam looked down at the picture of Pete and swallowed. "You know it." He answered grimly, remembered again that moment in the church, telling Dean that other people would die if he didn't finish closing the gates of Hell.
…ooo0oo…
Kevin stood staring straight in front of him, dead cellphone still mashed tight to his ear, pad of paper with the names and coordinates grasped in his other.
Knights of Hell, that sounded bad… Or maybe… if you equated demons to chess pieces, a knight was only valued two points greater than a pawn, the second lowest valued piece in the game… Maybe this Abaddon woman-demon wasn't that freaky after all.
Kevin shook his head, who was he kidding, he asked himself hands falling limply to his sides; in terms of feudal society, knights were always the most highly armoured and skilled of warriors. Their entire purpose was that of fighting and killing. Yeah, nothing about the term knight would be comforting if it was bolted in front of the phrase 'of Hell.'
And getting back to the chess analogy, a knight's primary role was to kill protecting it's King.
What if the thing, with this Abbadon and the kidnapped hunters was just a diversion. Dean used the term Knight's with an s, as in plural, which meant there had to be more than one of them out there.
And what else had Dean said? 'You find a way to kill one, I mean permanently, drop a dime.'
Did that mean the Winchesters had tried and failed to kill one already, using both the Kurdish demon killing knife and an Angel blade? The Winchesters who had left him alone, in an underground bunker, with the King of Hell, who was, in all probability, exactly who these nigh on unkillable Knights of Hell were interested in finding. Had the Winchesters known about these knights back when they kidnapped Crowley? Or were the Knights of Hell yet another surprise, like the Gremlin?
"Cào nǐ zǔzōng shíbā dài!" He swore with feeling.
Typical Winchester's!
Now they called him up, just expecting he'd magically come up with a solution. A way to kill the freaking unkillable.
They had absolutely no idea how much work it'd taken for him to find that spell for the demon bombs on the demon tablet. The laundry list —of like a million ingredients, including the tail of a practically extinct newt; which he was pretty sure Castiel had turned into an actually extinct newt, when they'd been trying to save some Angel from Crowley last January.
'So scratch demon bombs off the list Kev, find us a new way to kill these knights of Hell and be snappy about it… before the knights come snap your neck Kev' there's a good boy.'
Crap! He just wanted to scream and throw things… to quit and walk out the door!
For the first time Kevin found himself wondered if the real reason the Winchester's hadn't killed Crowley, stuffed him down in the basement instead, had more to do with just not knowing how.
Were they telling him the truth when they said they only wanted to get info out of the King of Hell, before they let him knife the mother murdering monster?
Or would they, when things came down to it, admit that they didn't know how to kill the King of Hell, and ask for his help again!
Did it matter?
Fact was, if this Abbadon, these Knights of Hell were using Tracy Bell and Irv Franklin as a diversion, so they could do a knights traditional duty, and save the King; then finding a way to ward against, or kill said Knight's had better be his top priority.
Kevin tossed the pad onto the table and burner cell back into the box with the others, and sucked in a breath, straightening his shoulders.
He had to believe the gremlin was right, that he might be lacking in physical fighting skills and brawn; but what he had between his ears counted for something. That he could do this. He'd used his brains to outwit bigger stronger opponents and survived.
He turned resolutely to the filing cards in the corner of the library, thinking to see if the British Men of Letters had any intel before facing the virtigo inducing option; of trying to find some mention of Kights of Hell on the demon tablet.
…ooo0ooo…
Crowley sat in the darkness, his head filled with a gaggle of circling memories that refused to let go, or back off.
Like a pack of rabid dogs… or hellhounds they circled and harried him, nipping at his heels, waiting for him to tire, or stumble, so they could drag him down and tear him to bleeding rags beneath their eager teeth and claws.
Flashes of his life as a child, adolecent and man, the trials, tribulations, and human failures of Fergus MacLeod.
Memories of his time on the racks and his eventual graduation. His climb off that rack and into the arms of demon-hood.
Lilith, the crossroads; the backstabbing and scheming, the boot licking and pretending, all to carve out a place for himself by Lilith's side.
Then the breaking of seals, Liliths death, and Lucifer's rise… His part in the appocalypse that wasn't, and eventual rise to become King.
All of it had herded him here, watching everything come tumbling down around his ears, like a child's tower made of so many wooden blocks. Everything scattered helterskelter, before the wrecking ball created by the mere presence of the brothers Winchester. Always.
He'd been catapulted headlong into that church, by events. Winchester the younger, suvior of humanity, pumping feelings, emotion, memory and a sick feeling of uneasy guilt into him with each syringe load of his sanctified blood.
Now, with no diversion and no off switch, (even that insufferable little fae git;) it was all he could do to suffer the memories in silence, without devolving back into that pathetic snivelling thing he'd been in the church. Blathering on about melodramas. Snivelling about seeking forgiveness… Whining about wanting, needing… deserving, to be loved.
It wasn't fair!
Suddenly, the lights came on.
Crowley blinked and suck in a startled breath. Looked around in shock.
Outside his dungeon came the sound of steps, not the heavy tread of Neanderthal hunter workboots, nor the scampering, scurry of the gremlin paws; but the nervous, halting, almost girlish, footfalls of someone wearing keds.
A smile curved his lips with delight.
Oh, he knew the sound of those little footsteps. He remembered all the fun times they'd shared, after Dean and Cassie popped off to Purgatory post boning Dick.
"Kevin?"
Beyond his boudoir the footsteps paused.
"Kevin," he called again "I know it's you. I'd recognise the pitter-patter of those little feet anywhere."
The prophet being here, outside his door, was an opportunity he'd been hoping for, and it meant something. Kevin either wanted to be there, or he had to be there. And Crowley would lay his bets on it being later. If Kevin had to be there, it stood to reason Moose and Squirrel were otherwise engaged…
The sound of footsteps started up again.
"That's right, run. It's what you do." He taunted the boy, imagined those shanty eyes narrowing in response; and how that sassy little mouth would purse while the muscles along that jaw would tense and bunch.
The lad could only play stoic and servile for so long before his temper inevitably got the better of him.
Beyond the doors there was pause and the sound of something moving about furtively. Then the footsteps again, the stride a hair faster.
Bollocks! Little fishy wasn't going to take the bait. He was Bodging it.
"I understand, I do." Crowley crooned to the prophet. "You're, what's the word?" He paused for effect. "—Weak." He let the jab slip between his lips like the first taste of a particularly good scotch. Heard the steps outside pause fractionally, and tilted his head with a sly grin as they changed course and took on a renewed vigour.
Ha! Hook line and sinker!
The dungeon's door jerked open to reveal the adorably grumpy, babyfaced prophet of the lord, his chest heaving fetchingly with either anxiety or passion. He looked like he needed a shave, some sleep and a shower.
He also looked exceptionally pent up. Exactly what the doctor ordered!
"Hiya, Kev." He smiled up flirtily from beneath lowered lids.
Kevin stepped closer, then hesitated at the edge of the altered devils trap. Wind evaporating from his sails, eyes falling to his shoes like the ineffectual child he was.
Kevin just stood there a moment shifting from foot to foot on his rubber soled tennis shoes.
"So— what brings you to my boudoir, handsome?" He asked benevolently.
"You're gonna tell me how to kill a Knight of Hell." The boy ordered with a scowl, trying to puff himself up to look intimidating.
He raised a brow at that.
"Abaddon giving you trouble, eh? Tell you what, you let me go, and I'll spit-roast the little whore for you. Sound good?"
"You're bluffing. You don't know." Kevin shot back, voice dripping with transparent scorn.
The ploy might have worked on some other, lesser demon. But not him, he had his eye on the prize, he didn't need to prove himself to the jumped up Mensa wannabe.
"Oh, I know plenty. For example, I know she'd love you. Skinny, submissive... you're just her type." He smirked at the lad and let his unspoken knowledge of Kevin's first sexual experience with one of his minions, just hover there in the air between them.
"Shut up."
"Fine." He licked his lips. "That's not what you came for, anyway, not really. What's on your mind, Kevin? You can tell me. We're friends!"
"You tortured me!" The boy accused and denied.
"I torture all my friends. It's how I show love." He eyed the boy affectionately. Kevin was sassy and smart. Smarter than his dundering minions, practically a joy to have round. "I was raised in a dysfunctional home environment…"
"You killed my mom!"
And there was the wedge to crack the boy right open.
"Did I?" He made himself wait a beat and saw the rusty cogs in Kevin's brain begin turning, against every instinct not to let them. "I mean, are you sure?" He probed again. "Did you ever see her body? I mean, how can you be sure she's dead?"
Kevin lunged forward with a scream and punched him in the face.
Yes! He allowed his head to rock with the force of the blow and conceal his grin of triumph. Savoured the rich taste of blood in his mouth and the mind clearing zing of pain and adrenaline as it coursed through his meatsuit.
"You can do better than that, little man." He watched Kevin turn his head and glance at the wall full of blades and other equipment, Crowley bit his lip in anticipation. "That's right. Let it all out."
…ooo0ooo…
Kevin let the bloodied hammer slip through his aching fingers. It landed with a thump at his feet. As he stood there panting for breath, heart still pounding with the waning rags of adrenaline and fury, he felt shakey and cold. His throat raw from screaming about everything Crowley had done to him and demanding answers about the knights of hell. He'd got no answers for his trouble. Apart from a description of all the perverted things Abbadon liked to do to, 'boys like him.' Taunting probes about Sophie, the girl Crowley had put in his cell and used one of his minions to seduce him with. Questions about how he felt, watching Channing's neck snap that day, and if he ever wished he'd just surrendered and saved her life…
He felt like he'd gone ten rounds with the Hulk, was on the receiving end of a beating rather than the one dealing out all the punishment.
And still, despite what had to be a major head wound, cracked ribs and kneecaps, shattered hands and a pulverised foot, Crowley sat there smiling that same perverted little smile and using the gruff voice of a empathetic English professor.
"There." Crowley purred. "Now that you've felt your feels, maybe we can talk."
"No." He spat furiously, wishing with everything he had he knew a way to really hurt the thing in front of him.
"Gonna make this simple, Kevin. Let me go, and I'll give you back your mother."
"She's dead." He repeated, but there was a small part of him that wondered. That hoped, despite everything.
"Oh, she wishes she was. After what I had my heavies do to her, she's begging for it." There was something about that glint in Crowley's eyes, the raise of his brows that felt like truth. "—But when have you ever known me to let anyone off easy?"
Kevin couldn't meet Crowleys eyes anymore. What if… what if Crowley wasn't lying. What if his Mom was somewhere out there, and they were hurting her… What if…
"You think Sam and Dean care about her? Huh?" Crowley jabbed, and that hit home, he remembered how the Winchesters had let his Mom bid her soul to save him and get the demon tablet back, even though they knew she'd become some kind of feelingless monster without it. And then, when Crowley possessed her, Dean had freaking joked about it. He'd had a knife to her throat… was going to kill her. Just to try and hurt Crowley.
"You think they care about you?" Crowley jabbed again. "You are just here to serve their needs. Nothing more.
You're gonna lose, Kevin. Everything. It's just a matter of time. When the Winchesters are done with you, they'll toss you aside without a second thought."
Kevin swallowed and looked away. God! He wished Crowley was lying… but he'd read the books… the words of the other dead prophet. The Harvelles, Rufus Turner, Bobby Singer… there was a long list of people who died while the Winchester just kept going, kept saving each other at all costs.
"Because they can. Because they think they're special. And because, well, there's always another prophet waiting in the wings."
Kevin looked away from the demon he'd beat on pointlessly, ineffectually for the past half hour, feeling sick.
"I'm the one in chains, but we're both prisoners here. What say, you let me go, and we walk out those doors together? What say we both win?"
For a moment Kevin wavered, feeling an urge to just give in, but he knew better. If he let Crowley out of the devils trap, if he tried to make him take him to his Mom— even in chains… He was no Winchester. No match for Crowley. And demon's lied, that was what they did, they were the bad guys. Crowley was their King, the biggest liar and scam artist of them all.
Even if his Mom was alive and Crowley took him to her, he wouldn't just let them walk away.
No, if he let Crowley go they'd spend the rest of their lives hunted, living in abandoned buildings, ducking and hiding from Angels, Demons and Winchesters.
"No." He forced the word past dry lips.
"Never say never, Kevin." Crowley looked back at him with too knowing eyes as he fled.
'That's right, run. It's what you do.' Crowley's words from earlier seemed to chase him down the empty hallways, even as hot tears blurred his vision.
A/N- Thank you for reading, comments keep this train going.
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Luv you all ️