It's August, more than a few years later, and we are in his private collection retrieving a dragon heart. I, we are surrounded by so many interesting objects, and I am not going to get the chance to look through them at all.
"No. You aren't." He goes to a box and takes out a very shriveled heart...that is ten times too big for a human. A dragon heart. There is no way that could have been human, or fit in a human chest.
"Darling, the dragons here today, bastards of an extinct race." He picks up the heart in two hands, and despite being dead, it is very warm. "Top condition." He puts it back and is about to leave when he does a double take to a shelf. Something is missing, I can feel the thought before he can hide it. "Bollocks." He goes over and looks behind some other objects and frowns. Whatever he is looking for, is not there. "Bollocks!"
What? "A book. A very important book." Book of the damned powerful? "Yes! But not magic, information." Yeah. That shit could be dangerous. Crowley rolls his eyes and puts the box down. Apparently this took precedence over a contract with a warlock. With a thought he steps with one foot into the veil, and out with the other into…
"Nevada." Everywhere we look is literally flat nothing. Isn't Burning Man close to here? "No. Now, give me a moment." He checks his coat, he checks his pistol, he checks his blades. Twice. I am now officially nervous. "I know this is the last thing you want to hear from me, or a doctor, but relax."
I'm thrown out from my secluded red prison and into his body, a very weird feeling, but I am distracted from that as Crowley once again pushes himself into my soul, using it as a curtain to protect him. He settles in, as if I am nothing more than a pair of old cotton pajamas. "Darling, I don't wear cotton. You're at least silk, if a low thread count." He hadn't done this for a bit, worn me, and he had rarely did it in his own body... we weren't at that stage of 'our relationship' yet. Wherever we are going must be dangerous.
"Very." Crowley makes his way across the empty flat desert until… we walk in more empty flat desert. The sand feels like tiny diamonds against our skin as the wind whips them past. It neither howls nor whistles, this wind. It moans, hollow and slight and empty, across a land that resembles the sound it makes. I barely notice. I have been distracted by the fact that I'm in a male body, as in settled in and would be able to walk around if Crowley hadn't been there. It's very odd, and I really don't know how to feel about it. I am sweating, it's hot, I am thirsty, feel sluggish, and too many things are sticky. Downside of controlling a body through a human soul, all the human things started to happen again. However, the body...definitely feels off for more than the reason than it's male and I'm female. Or the fact that I had seen this body on screen. No...this body had been Dead until I was pushed into it a moment ago. It was true Crowley kept his meatsuits in good condition; no wounds, working order, no visible injuries, but it had been dead, I think? I am sorely confused.
"Darling. Magic and...DEMON. Don't overthink it, you'll hurt my brain. Now shut Up."
Crowley looks around and with a snap a square outline appears in the ground for a moment before the lid swings open to reveal stairs. Without hesitation he walks down into the darkness of the dusty hole in the ground. After a few steps the darkness becomes absolute as the door swings closed by itself. This did not seem good.
Crowley ignores me and keeps walking and within a few more steps the hallway lights up, and that's when I see it. The familiar symbol.
The Men of Letters.
But we weren't in Kansas.
"Toto, Moose wasn't an idiot. He rarely listed the actual location of anything in his journals. If he mentioned names he never mentioned where, if he mentioned where he never mentioned names. Moose wasn't an idiot when it came to anything other than family. But, well, family makes you an idiot." We walk during this rant, down and down. Spiraling. I can't help but feel tense, even afraid. The enclosed space and sandy walls were too similar to many of the HP Lovecraft stories I read. Ironically Crowley made me feel safer. Not just because he wasn't about to die, but because he would know if there was something like that; Hell, he would have dealings with it.
Crowley is not amused with my thoughts. He should be the scariest thing I knew. Sorry Crowley, but the unknown is more terrifying than anything until you can accept it. I may not know what you will do at any given moment, but I know you…and you know a lot; on occasion that is comforting.
Crowley stays silent at my mental comments and moves on, into the deep. The coldness and slight ache you feel when the room should be damp or dark, when the atmosphere and ambience demand it, but it isn't. It creates a dissonance, uncomfortable and distracting. Probably the point here. We keep walking and soon the light changes from torchlight to a more electric kind...and we hear a voice. Crowley pauses, and the voice does too after a few moments, then returns with more clarity than it has the right to.
"Please do come down Crowley. We've been expecting you."
"Bollocks." Crowley keeps walking and pauses before a closed wooden door. The door is old and worn, but the familiar symbol shines in gold as if freshly polished. Crowley stands there and thinks a moment before asking a question to the ether that is apparently very attentive. "You wouldn't, by any chance, happen to have one of those pulse generators on the other side, would you?"
"I guess you'll have to come in and see." Crowley rolls his eyes and I tense up. British Men of Letters. I thought they left. Crowley doesn't respond, he doesn't want to give them any information they could use. He snaps and the door opens to reveal the bunker, and three well dressed older men, one woman, and a middle aged man with short black hair. "Good to see you Crowley." Says the one sitting to the left at the large central table. His hair is gray and his mustache is curled. He looks every bit a dapper gentleman.
"Donachev. To what do I owe the pleasure? No one has broken our deal I assume?"
"No, no. Nothing so dramatic." Crowley leans in and looks at the ceiling, then the floor. No traps. He takes a step in, hands in pockets and heads toward the central table. "We have been-" Donachev stops talking as Crowley vanishes. They frantically look around for a moment before...
"Here gents." We both stand by the liquor, of course, as Crowley picks up a decanter and opens it. He takes a sniff and curls his nose. "I was just hoping with your arrival you might have brought something resembling class to their refreshments." He sets the decanter down.
"No, but it's nice to see you haven't changed." There is a click and a light turns on overhead. Crowley looks up at the very small light and the strange device in front of it, then down at the perfect shadow of a devil's trap. Crowley sighs and rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time that day.
"Right down to business. So, what can I do for you?"
"No, this is about what you've been doing Crowley. Not your demons, you personally." Crowley looks at the group with something resembling interest, but inside I can feel nervous energy. He is going over all the things they might do to him to try to find out what is going on, and possible ways to utilize each procedure. Possible vices the men have, possible deals he could make.
I am just watching and waiting for more information. I don't like these people. I don't know why. They just seem like cunts. Crowley raises his brows, his only sign of amusement or agreement with my thoughts, a reaction also suitable to what had just been said out loud.
"Ah, so you heard about that." There is silence.
"Please, elaborate on what you think we've heard."
Crowley sighs and puts his hands back in his pockets.
"That I'm just a bit harder to kill these days." In a flash he takes the gun out and shoots up. There is a sound of breaking glass and a flash of gold from the middle aged man before a loud screech and pressure fills the air. Pain courses through both of us. Crowley doesn't fight it, and flies out of his vessel and deeper into the bunker. I hear cursing.
"Find him!"
"Did you see his color? It's true!"
"Did you see the glitter, the white orbs?"
"Put a protection circle around his body!"
"Where was the intel that he was a sharp shooter?!"
The voices fade as he flies deeper into the bunker. He is pissed. I am concerned and thoughtful. They couldn't harm him in his smoke form...so why would they exorcise him?
"To see my smoke form. I'm already the only demon with red smoke. Now they also know I'm bigger, glitter like Edward Cullen, and have two white orbs with me. Not the best situation." Well, what can you do in this form, besides possess things? I can feel the mix of frustration and glee as he flies through the halls. We turn a corner quickly and ram into a wall, which cracks under the force. Oh. Ok then. Then why don't demons fight like this?
"Because one demon alone can't do much damage." Yeah, but you're not one demon anymore Crowley. You're one plus all the souls you've taken, and then two more right here.
We round another corner and fly through a vent to emerge in the kitchen. One of the older men is in there and Crowley dives toward him…
"Abantji!" The sound of the spell echoes as we hit a wall of force and bounce back. Crowley writhes in rage as he flies into the kitchen implements, knocking them from the shelf, before heading back into the vent. He flies through the smaller airspace until we hear something besides the shouting.
Muffled cries and curses.
He flies toward the sound to emerge in the hated room where he was kept so many times. In the center of the trap are three people tied together on the ground.
Hunters.
Crowley flies out and circles them.
They are dressed as all American hunters are. Older clothes, slightly wrinkled, boots that have been scuffed and run through mud and water and blood. One is wearing flannel. A Winchester?
"Darling, no."
The hunters freak as the smoke pours in.
"What the fuck!?"
"Demon! Shit shit shit."
"The Hell are the Men of Letters playing at?"
"Wait! Wait! I remember something about this one! This is Crowley! He's red! The King of Hell who helped the Winchester's save the world once."
"More than once. But I'm not keeping track." I chuckle. He wasn't wrong. He also helped them break it on more than one occasion. "Details."
"Why is he here?"
"I think the Men of Letter dicks from England want something with him."
"That's probably not good. For anyone." Crowley circles them and rams into the rack of torture tools, hard, sending some flying. "Looks like he agrees." One of the tools, a scalpel, has fallen close to the hunters but not inside the circle. Crowley sees it at the same time the hunters do and he sweeps towards it.
"Shit shit shit!" His smoke encircles the implement that is supposed to be used to heal and throws it at the hunters, end over end, into the circle. Within reach.
"Oh." One of them reaches for it as we hear footsteps and Crowley rushes back into the vent. We can hear the voices as we circulate out of sight. The hidden doors open as his last wisp enters the vent once more.
"Did you see a demon come in here?" It was the middle aged one. He looks back and forth frantically as he voices his question to the annoyed hunters.
"What? Why the fuck would a demon be in here?" Says the eldest hunter with a scraggly beard.
"And why would we tell you?" Asks the female one.
"Because it is a new species that if not catalogued and studied could destroy us!" The hunters look at each other for a second then laugh.
"Right bud. Cuz new things that powerful just come into existence all the freakin time!"
"Next you're gonna tell me there is a new breed of werewolf!"
The middle aged Man of Letters snarls in disgust and leaves, closing the door behind him. The hunters look back and forth at each other and the one in the flannel pulls the scalpel out from under his butt.
"Go George. Hurry." Crowley waits for them to cut the bindings and listens to the echoes of enemy voices in the vents.
"Where is he?"
"Check the Winchester's rooms, they could have left him something!"
"Turn on the vent cleaning system! Order number 25! I'll make sure the salt intake is full!" Time to go.
We exit the vents as a whirring starts his smoke stings ever so slightly.
"He's back. Watch out." Says the female hunter.
"Is he a new species?"
"Dude, he's like 300 according to Sam and online wikis so, no, he's not freakin new." Says the youngest.
"Look at those orbs. What are they?" Says the woman. Crowley circles and waits, listening to the questions and plotting. I think this is an opportunity. Save them, with no ill effects, and you may have new potential allies.
"I'm planning on taking a meat suit, if their soul touches any of the others, including you, for even a second, they will know too much." Crowley. Take a fucking piece of me and drop my soul, then- I don't finish the thought as the hunters stand and shake free of the rope. They stay in the circle, watching Crowley circle them, a concentric symbol of danger.
"He's gonna possess one of us." Says the older male.
"Duh." says the woman as Crowley just flies around the room, looking for something.
"He could help." Says the youngest male.
"Yeah, but whoever he possessed isn't coming back alive." Silence follows the female's comment. Crowley can't find whatever he is looking for and is getting agitated. I wonder if the hunters could understand me if they held my soul… that could break the stalemate. Crowley shifts in the air and I feel a ripping sensation; once again a part of me is taken away. As I am dropped to the floor Crowley whispers a threat.
"Betray me Chew Toy…" there are more lives at stake than just his, or mine. These three hunters would not stand up against the British Men of Letters. Not for a second. With Crowley, they have a chance.
"What the?" I float a bit, then start to head toward my closest missing piece, but the one named George grabs me.
"What is it?"
"Dunno, hey, he's leavin'!"
"George!"
"What the fuck!?"
"What?"
"It talked to me Dan!"
"Jesus fucking Christ George we don't have time for this. Crowley can help. He will let you go after. His preferred body is upstairs and the Men of Letter dickfucks have it. But he needs a body for now. You have a common enemy."
"What are you?"
"I'm a soul George, I-" Crowley returns then and circles the group, the other soul still with him but barely being held onto. "Choose George!"
"The Hell is goin on George?" Dan looks at the younger hunter as he regards me.
"I think the demon will help."
"George! Fucking no-" But George has stepped out of the circle, and Crowley steps into George.
There is the sound of two cracks as Crowley stretches his new neck. He holds me in his hand and then looks around the room again.
"Ah." He goes and grabs the other white floating orb in the air. He turns and looks at the two hunters, and speaks in George's voice, with his own mannerisms. "Either of you put jars in here? Filled with holy water perhaps?"
"Y-yeah? Why?"
"To hold a few souls. Now, where?" The one called Dan tentatively points at the cabinet to the right, very old and would have definitely broken if Crowley had tried to search it. With a wave the door opens and rows upon rows of jars filled with clear water are revealed. Crowley sneers and two of the jars appear on the ground next to the circle. "Now, if you wouldn't mind emptying those, in a dark corner on ground, not me."
"Why?"
"We don't Really have time for questions here. Do you want me at my best, or do you want your friend, and all of you, to die?" The hunters look at each other and Dan reaches out of the circle and empties the jars by tossing their contents into the corner behind him. Crowley watches as he places them down, quickly pulling his arms back in.
"Good job, A plus effort." Crowley drops the other soul into the jar and with a wave it closes and vanishes. Then he looks at me. "Sorry Chew Toy, but if you want this to work out like you said, you need to come home." Crowley focuses and his smoke gathers at his new mouth, and slowly light appears there.
"What-what are-" Crowley ignores him and blows George's soul into the jar. He picks it up and with a thought it closes. He holds it out to
"Dan, George. I believe you've met."
"What, I-"
"Calm gentlemen. Here, you can even have him in a moment. Don't let him out unless you want him to die." Crowley looks at me and with a wave I'm down back in the red smoke. Pain fills me as I am once again pushed into a body as he pushes into my soul. The shower curtain called Chew Toy. I yell at him to stop, if I used the man's brain to control him, my memories could- "Not how it works Chew Toy, but good thought." He finishes the process and then sighs. Enjoying the feeling of the world through my soul. He likes this, he just didn't like to do it in his own meat suit too too often, not without reason. That was his. Here, in someone else's body… well. I hope this preference stays that way, if he ever stopped minding about that it would be horrible for me. ...I should not have thought that when he is listening. I can hear his intrigue for a second before he comes back to the present situation.
He looks at the jar for a second, contemplating doublecrosses, but decides to play the long game and tosses the jar to Dan. The hunters stare.
"One more moment." He looks at the jars of holy water and with a thought one is in his hand, he opens it and with a snap the piece of my soul he had torn off before flies into the jar, which he closes tightly before waving it off somewhere, probably to a shelf with a hundred other specimens. He looks at the other hunters and nods.
"So, either of you? Contract for healing all the nasty wounds you might-"
"Hell no!"
"Just a thought. Now, put George somewhere safe and let's set a trap shall we?"
"How do we know you'll help us?"
"How do I know you won't betray me? Mutually assured destruction. Also, don't you agree that the British Men of Letters are pompous self righteous excuses for humans?"
"Yeah, but after we win...what then? How do we know you won't kill us?" Says the third hunter, Samantha, much to Crowley's amusement, or perhaps annoyance.
"I suppose you don't, but I want my body back."
"Yeah, you do seem to like one body above others don't you." Crowley blinks.
"And you're sure of this how? In fact, I wasn't aware Sam left any writings on the matter of me here." That Crowley had left behind. The hunter named Dan scoffs as he scratches a hole in the devil's trap.
"Dude, you know there is a whole show right?" Crowley cocks his head as if surprised.
"Really? Do tell."
"Yeah, standard trainin for hunters today. All fifteen fuckin seasons. It ain't accurate on everythin, but some of it, how things look, even a few names, spot on. Don't know how, but hey, it's fun."
"Must be a fun...month of binge watching. I-" Crowley pauses. He can hear voices, getting closer. "Tie us up, and get back in the circle; quickly they are coming."
"You can-"
"Stop talking, and do."
"But they will have holy-"
"I am aware. Now, tie me up, and please, be rough."
Soon we are all sitting in the center, Crowley's leg over the scratch mark in the trap as we hear the door open. Last second Crowley glances up and frowns at the shining beacon that is George in the cupboard. With a jerk of his head the jar vanishes and then the door closes just as the entire procession that greeted us comes in. A close call. The group looks down at the hunters with the same disgust Crowley reserves for anyone not worth his time. The hunters return the look with venom laced glares. The one named Donachev speaks.
"We have searched the bunker top to bottom. The demon we are after is nowhere to be found. That means, he is in one of you."
"Right. Cuz he would come into the trap." Says Samantha scoffing. Donachev frowns and looks to the cupboard to the right. The hunters tense for a second and I laugh silently. Oh, this is going to be fun.
"Test us. We're all fucking clean." Says Crowley in George's voice.
"I plan to. Stanley?" The middle aged man goes to the cupboard and opens it, the hunter's eyes on him. They relax when they see that George isn't in there. Stanley grabs a bottle and with the most expressionless face I have ever seen, unscrews it, and throws the contents over all of us. Crowley screams.
"Ow. Ow. Oh my god it burns!" It hurt of course but there is no smoke or burning and, Crowley doesn't really care that much. He looks up at Stanley, sarcastic annoyance plastered on his face. "I hate being wet." The hunters all stare at Crowley, this is impossible.
But they don't say anything. The Men of Letters look at each other, it didn't matter what type of demon you were, holy water worked. They turn to leave...
And the sound of a snapping finger fills the air.
Everyone freezes; and then many things happen at once.
Two of the men just drop as their necks break. The ropes fall as Dan pulls the slipknot loose. Two of the elders turn as Crowley and the hunters stand up. Stanley readies for combat with some odd stance. Donachev still faces the door.
"Hello again Donachev,-" says Crowley in his own voice.
"Apperi!" Donachev says a word and there is a flash of light, and the sound of footsteps. Crowley curses and the door to the prison slams shut with a thought from him. Stanley reaches for something and is thrown against the wall with a wave, unconscious. There is quiet.
"Alep-"
"Ah-ah!" Scolds Crowley and the other man clutches his throat. The woman starts to move and Dan rushes her.
"Ataranu!" Dan freezes in place and his face starts to turn blue.
"Release Eric or-" she is interrupted by a snap followed by a cracking sound as she falls to the floor as well. The remaining man scratches at his throat for a moment before Crowley flicks his hand and his neck snaps too. Seems to be the theme of the day. Crowley looks at Stanley and then to Samantha.
"Tie him. Bind his hands, fingers, and feet, then duct tape his eyes and mouth shut."
"His eyes?"
"Yes! Magic!" Crowley snaps and tries to teleport, but the wards are up, that means no one else can bamf out either. He looks at Dan who is catching his breath. "Dan. Go guard the front door. Take Stanley's gun. I'm going to find my old friend."
"Friend?!"
"Business acquaintance with whom I am no longer doing business." Crowley walks out of the prison and quickly toward his goal. He listens as he goes but no echo of running is nearby. He reaches the main hall and beelines towards his body. He grabs his gun from the table as he passes, and shoots at the floor near his body, breaking the circle around it. He drops his gun and with a thought the two jars with souls appear on the ground.
He doesn't sit down or pause; midstep he leaves George and rushes towards his meatsuit, bringing me with. The first sound he hears is the sound of George's body hitting the floor. He stands, and while he maneuvers into the shower curtain strategy, that's what I'm calling it, he waves his hand and both jars open. George's immediately rushes to his meatsuit which was in the process of sitting up. The other, Crowley motions to and it flies where its contract demands.
"So that's your ploy." Crowley looks to the left as he swallows and Donachev is standing there, holding a rather dangerous looking gun. Crowley sighs and looks to George who is dazedly still trying to stand up.
"Stay down pet. Daddy has some business to take care of." George shakes his head, still a bit confused, but listens.
"So you're going the insane angel route?" Crowley looks affronted at Donachev's comment.
"No. Too much at once, if the angel couldn't handle it, leviathans or no, I'm not trying it. It's idiotic."
"But that's where you get your powers from, the immunity from holy water."
"Oh, that and so much more." Crowley narrows his eyes and begins to walk forward. "You...just heard rumors that I was immortal, nothing else didn't you? From where? My demons? An angel? No…" Donachev takes a step back as Crowley continues his walk forward. Crowley pauses as he hears Dan slowly walking up the hallway behind us, barely making a sound, then looks to George as if he had heard him move. Donachev immediately trains the gun on him. Crowley frowns. "Touch him, or any of the hunters here, and I will have your living head on a pike as a dining room decoration. Vlad Tepesh vogue. This is between us and-"
"So, you care for them…"
"What? No. But I like them better than you. Which still isn't saying much." Crowley raises a hand, and Donachev shoots.
The sound of the gun reverberates like a song instead of a bullet and Crowley crumples to the ground. The pain is immense, and strange. It doesn't burn or hurt like anything holy, or sting like salt, no it just feels heavy, as if he can't move.
Which he can't.
"Devil's trap bullets… I see you took a page from the Winchesters."
"No, it's far worse than that. Blood magic and verse, Crowley. Oldest magic."
"You...didn't exactly incant anything there." Crowley rolls on the ground, trying to reach the wound to pull out the bullet. Instead he gets shot again. The shot once again echoes with a sound like a song instead of a gun. "...Ah. The gun does it for you. Sped up I suppose? Brilliant. It means I don't have to hear you sing." He coughs, and sour tasting blood covers his teeth. Some of it pools on the floor and Crowley begins to reach for it. There is another gunshot, songshot, but it doesn't hit us. There is a scream and Crowley snarls.
"Bastard." Donachev stands above us, gun in hand. Crowley looks up at the elder's face.
"So...you claim not to care…"
"They were Mine! We had a Deal! You and I had a deal!"
"It didn't say anything about leaving you alone in the states." Crowley grins.
"Spoken like a true demon." Donachev sneers and brandishes the pistol again, ready to shoot. "I only need your meatsuit to hold you, not be compl-" He pauses, and spins toward the hall we came from. There is the sound of another songshot and a cry followed by a thud and groan. "Well, they seem keen enough to help you."
"No, they just hate you that much; we all bonded over a strong mutual dislike. We had hats, and a speech. The 'British Men of Letters are Ponces' club. The introductory ceremony was beautiful and-" Crowley is babbling, talking for no reason other than that the sound of his voice punctuated by coughs and muddled with blood would be distracting and reassuring to his attacker. Donachev is ignoring him, thinking that Crowley is just attempting to distract him from what should be a third attack from the last hunter. He was close.
Crowley is the son of a witch, and had hung around with the Winchesters for 7 some years. He was quite an artist when it came to blood, especially relating to symbols that could cause pain.
"The band was lovely, bone flutes. Samantha danced on an effigy of your face Donachev. I won't speak of what I did to it, your delicate sensibilities might have you faint from shock."
"Oh do shut up Crowley, I-"
"Just one more word." Donachev pauses, then looks down. Crowley's hand is over an odd symbol, and he smiles. "Darelania-takovenaja." Donachev yells in pain as burns start to appear all over his skin. He drops the gun and covers his face with his hands, screaming. Crowley uses the time to start to dig the bullets out. Donachev starts whispering in harsh tones to himself, another spell. Crowley curses. He doesn't have much time. He has been lucky up until now. He and Donachev have a history, I can tell by how they talk to one another. With politeness that barely hides the playfully dangerous venom beneath each word.
Playtime is over now. The next spell shot at Crowley, will be very painful. And then Donachev would spend years picking him apart atom by atom.
Crowley has finally gotten one bullet out, the one in his shoulder, when the muttering stops. Crowley sighs and dops the bullet.
"Well, it really was quite fun while it lasted." Donachev glares, eyes so filled with revulsion even I'm a little taken aback. Crowley, doesn't care. "C'mon darling, it was a trip down memory lane. How many times were we in similar situations before we struck that Nation Wide deal?"
"Enough that it pains me very little to do this." He shoots Crowley point blank through the side of his skull. His head is snapped back with the force, and then reels from the weight of the enchantment.
"...Ow! Rude!" Donachev ignores him and takes out his cell phone. He begins to dial.
"Hey, buttface!" Both Crowley and Donachev look up; on the balcony stands Samantha, gun pointed at Donachev. "Smile for the camera deadbeat."
The bang of the gun resounds like a welcome drum after the oddness of the songshot. The cacophony off the sides of the entryway sounds like safety; and when Donachev falls… the sound of his body hitting the floor is like the last beat in a drum solo.
Then Samantha runs down the stairs to George and Dan, dropping the gun on the way.
"George! George! Dan! Are you ok?" Crowley scowls.
"Hey! HEY!"
"What!? You're fine!"
"Yeah, and I can help!"
"Bullshit!"
"I'm your best chance at them not bleeding out into puddles of-!" Samantha screams in anger but comes to stand over Crowley. "Hello. Got a penknife?" Samantha rolls her eyes and throws a knife down. "I'll be with you in a moment, darling." Samantha sighs again and goes back to her friends, not really willing to help the demon more. Crowley quickly digs the bullet in his gut out, the one in his leg, and then starts on the one in his forehead.
I am nearly catatonic from the pain, so is the other soul. To Crowley, this is a light Friday evening.
"C'mon Chew Toy, you've been through worse. I would know. I put you through it." Yeah, still fucking hurt. Finally the bullet pops out and Crowley stretches and stands up. He looks down at Donachev, disappointed that such a rivalry had ended...without him killing his opponent. He turns and walks toward the hunters, hands in pockets, curious. He rounds the table and looks down. George is passed out, the bullet having gone through his cheek and almost hitting his spine. Dan...Dan is awake. Unfortunately awake; because the bullet that hit him had gone through his gut. He groans in pain, the magic of the bullet apparently having a more purely agonizing effect on humans than restrictive. Crowley shakes his head.
"Pity." Samantha turns and glares.
"Pity! PITY! This is your fault!"
"Well, I didn't exactly pull the trigger, but I am still willing to help." Crowley wipes some blood off his forehead and looks at the fingers a moment before licking them and shaking them away as if it was just a small scrap. It, in fact is, the wound is already closing. Samantha stares.
"What...are you?"
"King of Hell darling. Has perks. Now, like I said. I'm here to help."
"You can do a spell?"
"Well, one only works After they are dead, and the other needs a bit of help." Samantha narrows her eyes. Crowley smiles. "Apparently, it's standard training to watch the show, so you should know what I'm quoting." Her eyes widen, finally taking it in now that the action is over.
"You're….You're him. Like, actually from the show him."
"Plain sight darling. Greatest trick the devil ever pulled blah blah. Now…" He waves his hand and the oddest contract I have ever seen appears in the air. It's less than two pages for one… "Now, in exchange for your occasional assistance, I will provide healing to all three of you, now, and any time you finish a job, especially for me. Sound fair?" Samantha stares.
"And….our souls?"
"Yours….To be re-evaluated in ten years based on the success of our business relationship." She stares. "We will add their signatures after they wake up. They seem a little...indisposed at the moment."
"And if they don't?"
"Darling, there's a clause for that. It means that if you get injured, in the line of duty, you don't get healed. Now… Deal?" She looks at him, eyes narrowed. "There is quite the time limit on this deal, and it isn't imposed by me." She sighs but nods. "Wonderful, come give uncle Crowley a kiss."
…..
George, Dan, and Samantha sit in the kitchen, drinking. Heavily. Crowley leans against the door with a glass of scotch.
They had all signed, and believed they consigned their souls to Hell. They were actually wrong. Crowley is after something else here, something possibly far more long term than some demons in Hell. He was after better rapport with hunters. If he could do what the British Men of Letters hadn't, not by providing tools, but by being straight up and healing them on occasion...without souls in the contract. Well maybe they could find an arrangement. If not… he could walk away with nothing in return. Confuse them even more and make a point that he was serious about a partnership. If they really did break the contract, that's what Hellhounds were for.
"Fuck. So...10 years?" Dan takes a drink as a chaser for his words, the others follow.
"No, I think it's… like an employee evaluation…" Says Samantha. Crowley takes a sip and watches as they attempt to figure out their situation. The poor hunters, so confused, overwhelmed.
"Yeah… one if we fail, we got to Hell." There is silence and then they all take a drink. Crowley rolls his eyes.
"Actually… It's, I can't believe I'm saying this, simpler, than that." The group turns as one to look at him.
"Excuse me?" Asks George. Crowley waves his hand and they all wince as the contract appears on their arms...and then on paper on the table.
"Section 2. Failure is defined as betrayal, or refusal to complete a job. And so you don't get your tight little knickers in a knot, job is defined as anything requested by me that includes the extermination, or removal of non-humans and creatures that endanger other beings, the rescue of requested persons, etc and on and on. So, in layman's terms…"
"Hunting." Says Dan anxiously. "But why? Why would you need hunters?" Crowley drains his drink.
"I don't… right now. Things change. Besides, I'm sure you've noticed that there are far fewer monsters around… which means the remaining ones are a bit smarter than your average bear as it were."
"Yeah, I had noticed that there were a lot less of the more dangerous things…"
"Your welcome by the way, spread the word." He walks over and sets the empty glass down as they stare.
"No… You? Got rid of monsters? Bullshit."
"Rid of them, no. The ones that annoyed me. Well, scouts honor that their remains are decorating my walls."
"No way you were a scout." Says Samantha, sneering.
"No, but I ate one once. Stringy." They all stand up and Crowley holds up his hands. "Great depression hit Everyone hard, also... Demon. Now-"
"Why are you doing this? Being so...nice? To us I mean." Asks George.
"I'm a kind and benevolent overlord."
"Yer a demon." Says Dan through a bottle of beer he had retrieved from the table.
"Like I said; kind... and benevolent... overlord. Now, I'm going to suggest you all go for a beer run, on me… Well on Donachev." Crowley places a wad of bloody twenties on the table. "I'm going to go ask our mutual friend, a few questions." The hunters stare.
"And why should we trust you to not wreck the place?"
"I have something very specific, to wreck. So, if you don't mind screams, the smell of burning flesh, and perhaps some happy sounds, on my part...please, stay. I love an audience." There is silence. "No takers? Fine, I'll put the popcorn back. Now... Leave!"
The hunters frown, but grab the wad of money and head out toward the entrance. Crowley shakes his head and makes his way towards the dungeon. We arrive moments later to see the Man of Letters tied to the chair, head down, just waiting and listening.
"Hello Stanley." The door is locked behind him, by the fact that Crowley had melted the lock. Crowley did not plan on being disturbed during this playdate. "Now… I could just possess you...but I have a feeling there is an anti possession sigil somewhere underneath all that muscle. Nice toning by the way."
Crowley walks around the current object of his ire. His eyes are indeed duct taped shut, as is his mouth. His hands are tied, and his fingers are threaded carefully with rope so he can't move them. His feet are bound together, by the big toes, and the rope holding those together is tied around the back of the chair and up to his neck. Crowley tilts his head, interested. Apparently Samantha knows a bit about torture. He nods in appreciation, then continues circling.
"So, you just Happened to be here when I came for something I thought that I left here. I'm beginning to think that isn't true. So…" Crowley rips the tape off Stanley's mouth. "Care to share?"
Stanley immediately starts muttering something that isn't English and the energy in the room starts to build. Crowley slams the tape back on and rolls his eyes. He sighs and looks to the left at the torture implements.
"You know… You Men of Letters, British or American, think you know torture. Think you know pain. You don't. There are very few humans who know true pain, and those who do…I believe you found out what that means with one Sam Winchester. Physical and mental pain meant nothing to Moose..." Crowley pauses. "I doubt you have that experience. So, tell me a few things and I'll just kill you." Crowley snaps and there is a cracking sound and one of Stanley's fingers breaks. There is the slightest twinge from the man tied to the chair in front of us. "One. How did your little club find out about my new abilities…. Two." Another snap and a crack. "How much do you know about them? Three…" Snap. Crack. "How did you find out where my private stash is? Four…" Snap. Crack. "How many other people know about it? Five…" Snap. Crack. "How many more of you are here? Six..." Snap. Crack. "How many others know you are here? Seven..." Snap. Crack. "How did you find out about the item you took from me? ...Eight..." Snap. Crack. "...Where... is my journal!?"
What. You kept a journal?
"Later Chew Toy. Now. Nine." Snap. Crack. "Is anyone else on their way? And Finally…" Snap. Crack. " Question 10….How would you prefer I fuck you? With your own miniscule penis after I rip it off and tie it to a stick, or… My preferred method since the other one is so small, with my own...very large… long… beautiful...knife?" There is no sound. Crowley leans over. "Answer these well enough and I'll wait an hour before I start on your toes… and get my knife."
….
Every digit was broken. Some, ok a lot, of other bones were fractured as well. That was fairly standard torture, and he had withstood it easily. Crowley expected him to. That was the point. The contradictory feelings of hope that this might be the worst, and the knowledge that it couldn't be. I didn't want to watch, but I really didn't have a choice, and it wasn't like I hadn't seen this before. Or worse. Crowley could do so much worse, and had worse done to Him on a regular basis for fun. For pleasure. Occasionally with me there, through it all, to Feel for him.
Either way, breaking bones wasn't the worst Crowley could do. No. We had only been about half an hour in when all his digits were broken.
It was five hours later.
There is no skin left on Stanley's entire right arm. His fingernails have been pulled out, and force fed to him, along with the skin. As a salad. With his tongue for croutons.
I would have pointed out that he couldn't answer questions without a tongue...but he had answered the questions around hour 3.
Now he is just dead.
"Humans have no tolerance for pain these days." Says Crowley as he rips his knife out from a rather personal place. He looks at it, and with a thought it is clean, and then gone as easily as it appeared. The wards didn't cover objects apparently.
The problem wasn't that this was horrifying, no. It was that it wasn't anymore, it was that I was used to it. That was what was horrifying. I could hate it, be disgusted by it, not want to watch it. ...but, I was used to it.
And that terrifies me, because this wasn't something anyone should be able to get used to. So...If I could get used to it... What is the next step?
Crowley looks at the dead Man of Letters and waves his hand. The door to the outside opens with a bit of protest from the melted lock, and the three hunters fall in. Crowley looks at them as he cleans off the tools he had used.
"Enjoying the audio book?" The hunters look at the room in horrified awe.
"What...I…" George stares at the man he had seen but six hours ago and tries to speak, then scrambles out of the room to throw up. Crowley just huffs a laugh and puts down the scalpel now that it's clean.
"I have a job for you three already. There is a base for the British Men of Letters about three hours south of here. It's where they were staying while they...arranged things. There is a single person left to guard it. I'll send you all the juicy deets. They of course probably have moved since then." Samantha stares, studying the corpse. She was the one who got info in the group, she could learn something here. Crowley notices. "Want lessons darling? We could have some private time, where I teach you wonderfully messy things." Samantha sneers and Dan steps in front of her, which she sees as unneeded from her glare.
"I see you took the guns they brought with while we were out." Crowley nods and looks at the remaining bloody tools and smock. He waves his hand and everything is clean.
"Guilty. I left one in your armory though. Please, go kill Jakobs with it."
"Jakobs? Who the Hell is that?!" Asks Dan.
"The last agent of theirs in the states. Who I want dead. The last known address," he waves a hand "is on your desk along with my number. Call me when you're done. That's an order darlings." They glare. "Now, if you'll pardon me I need to collect two things-" Samantha holds out a very small leather bound book, and Dan holds out the jar with the part of my soul. Crowley pauses. "Yes. Now. Hand them over." Sam shakes her head and Crowley tenses, ready to end his contract. He had put nothing in there about him just killing them. Then he thinks for a moment, he could just teleport the book, but he is curious.
"I'm giving you a chance t-"
"I like the part about your first deals in Scotland." Crowley tenses as Samantha flips through the pages. "Take it, leave now, and don't return." Crowley pauses.
"How about I call first?"
"Fine. Just leave." Samantha tosses the book and Crowley grabs it, putting it in his coat.
"Happily, after my other possession is returned to me." He looks to Dan, who shakes his head. "Excuse me?"
"This is a baby soul, ain't it?" Crowley laughs, I do as well. Not even close.
"No. Not at all. It-"
"And we should believe you why?" Asks Dan clenching the jar. Crowley sighs and holds out his hand.
"You shouldn't. But-" the jar appears in his hand, "it doesn't really matter." Dan looks at his empty hand, startled. Crowley opens the jar and looks at it. He pauses, then starts to drink it despite the sting. The part of my soul swims in the holy water like a bit of dust, away from his mouth, then speeds towards it, towards me. I feel whole again and Crowley stops and caps the jar before tossing it to a flabbergasted Dan. "Now, take down the warding and I'll clean this up for you. Don't want all this meat laying around-"
"No. Leave it. I am a Woman of Letters. I am going to catalogue every single thing you did, how you did it, and how to utilize it. Now. Get out of my house." At this Crowley regards her more closely. She had seemed colder than the other hunters, now we knew why.
"British chapter revoltee or…?"
"They recruited my mother, she left and initiated me here. Bad break up with my dad, didn't even know I was alive."
"Oh?"
"Let's just say today took some self control." She shifts and we can see her hand tighten on her gun. Crowley is intrigued, but can tell it is time to go.
"Well then. I'll just take my leave."
"Leave the singing gun." Says George as he wobbles back in. Crowley opens his coat and reveals the gun in his inner pocket.
"You mean this? No, but as I said, there is a smaller one in your armory, which you would know if you had a stronger stomach. Now. Really. Go get Jakobs. I'll give you a bonus if you finish by Friday."
"Like what?" Crowley pauses.
"How about... no deals with innocent people will be done for an entire day if you do." They are silent. "You do know how many deals are done in a day?" Silence. "Over 200. Now… deal?"
"And you'll keep this because?" Asks George.
"Because I-"
"Because he doesn't break deals." Says Samantha. Crowley smiles.
"So glad we understand each other. Now. Deal?" There is silence again. I can feel Crowley's amusement. The percent of deals with innocent people ranged wildly from day to day. And that depends on your definition of innocent.
"Deal. I'm not kissing on it, not again." Says Samantha and Crowley nods.
"Fine. Your loss." He looks at his new hunters. "Lovely doing business with you. I expect a call by Friday." He walks towards the exit and as he passes he snaps and they flinch. "You're welcome." He had fixed the door. We walk through the halls and toward the exit. The bodies are already gone, their weapons secreted away. With a snap they are in Crowley's other pocket. Only one other gun. Not much. The gold egg, however, that is there. He doesn't even pause in his stride and continues out the door. It closes with a slight thud behind and he continues up into the winding stairs, up into the desert, up past the teleporting wards, up into the ether… and back to his stash. He looks around and frowns.
"This will all have to be moved." He sighs and goes over to the door, it's old, older than the one on the bunker, and has symbols and sigils so intricate I can't really make out what is the carving and what is the door. What I can tell... is that it radiates power. He looks at it for a moment and with a push it flies off its hinges and shatters against the wall. A feeling of lightness permeates the room; the wards have been broken. Crowley turns and looks around for a moment, regarding his treasures, deciding on something...and snaps. Five things disappear. I'm not sure what they are, just that there is an absence where there wasn't moments ago. He snaps again, and more things vanish.
By the time he is done the room feels bare, despite there being more than a hundred items still in it. These were apparently less important. Enough so that he can text a demon to guard the room until he can come back and move them. He was late after all. He dials another number and waits.
"Anton. Apologies, I was delayed. No, the heart is fine, and yours, for the agreed upon price. Good. I'll be there momentarily." He grabs the box with the heart and steps into the ether and out into a lavish office. White marble, pillars, tall ferns, gold accents, a view of a busy city with very old buildings sprinkled around. A man with a very sharp beard waits looking out over the city next to a desk so large it seems inefficient. There is no hint of magic, or arcane, anywhere. Crowley walks toward him. We have a moment of silence before the next bit of scheming starts...
So...can I know what is in the journal? Besides your rise to power?
"No."
"Pardone'?" The man turns and his robes shine with the movement. Purple with intricate patterns of paisley that seem inset into the gold trim shines, not with luster, but with magic. Crowley takes a step into the air and arrives at the desk to set the box down.
"Apologies, Anton. As I said, I was upheld."
"And what could 'ave possibly 'eld up ze King of Hell?"
"The British Men of Letters."
"Ah, old friends of mine." Crowley pauses as he is opening the box and looks at Anton.
"They tried to take me apart, to study." Anton frowns for half a second then shrugs.
"Friends no longere zen. Also, I assume, for ze reason zat you left none alive, yes?" Crowley continues opening the box.
"Astute as ever, but their organization is still working, if a bit lesser. My deal with them however, regarding contracts in England...well."
"Ah, well, I will stay away from zem until zey no longere exist, or something else 'appens. Now. To zey most important business at 'and." Anton picks up the decanter on the desk and pours some of the amber liquid into a glass then pushes it to Crowley. "Your preferred." Crowley picks it up and sips, and nods.
"See Anton, this is why I enjoy doing business with you, you know how to treat a girl right." He toasts and takes another sip before setting it down. "Now, dragon heart, the old kind. I've shown you mine...?" Anton chuckles at all the innuendo and snark and snaps his fingers.
Unlike Crowley's it doesn't cause some magical effect, but summons two servants who are carrying a chest. The chest itself is beautiful, carvings of faces and flowers intermingling with vines cover the sides. The top has no such beautiful designs, but is covered in sigils and symbols. The two people carrying the chest on their shoulders however are as beautiful as the chest they carry. Tan, with black hair and clothes so white they almost hurt to look at. The woman is thin, classically beautiful with almond eyes. The man is feminine, elven features, his eyes more slanted. Both have golden eyeshadow.
"And zat is what I love about working with you Crowley, you entertain. Now, 300 souls, yes? The box is complimentary, as are the two carrying it. Enjoy." Crowley gives a slight incline and smile to show his appreciation, I can tell he has plans for them already.
"I am sure I will. So, saved the date to rehash the contract?" Says Crowley as he finishes the scotch.
"I would not miss zat for ze world. What waz it again? July….20th 2130?"
"At 3pm. Cream this time?"
"Only if you wear a zat outfit. You know what ze coat does for me."
"Darling, it's not about what it does for you, it's about what I'll do to you with it." Ah, so it is that type of 'business' relationship.
We are gone. All 305 of us. To Hell. After all, Crowley has a new very fancy fish tank to hide in his cupboard, and a few 'fish' to transfer.
