"Hey, Bobby."

"Yeah Bec?"

Years upon years have passed. We are sitting in Crowley's private room, waiting for him to get back from...something he wouldn't share with us. He had been kind enough to bring us chairs, made of human bone but hey.

"I got a couple of questions. We don't really...at least we don't really look into each other's pasts when we're in…"

"Casa a la Crowley?"

"Yeah. You keep yours private, don't really allow yourself to relax and exude stuff...I mean you might have seen mine..."

"Nah. Not on purpose anyway. You ...you were ready to let go a anythin."

"I don't hide many things. Not now, not when I was alive. You hide things, they have power over you."

"Don't I know it."

"Yeah. So… since I figure this is the more polite way to talk...you willing to endure a couple...indeterminate amount of times worth of torture to raid the King of Hell's liquor cabinet and have a heart to heart over-"

"Hell yes. Ain't that thing locked out the wazoo though?" I smile and look at the cabinet where he keeps his liquor and dossiers. Covered in sigils and a chain in front.

"Yeah, well I've been here long enough that I have a few friends."

"Friends...in Hell?" I just shake my head and turn to the right. Growley is laying there, a tertiary guard alongside the two in front of the door.

"Growley. Good girl. Fetch Rowena?" Growley rolls on her back. This terrifying monster was still, after all, a type of dog. "Yes. I will totally give you all the belly rubs." They do not get those a lot because their underbelly is armored...and the edges of it are sharp. So Growley jumps up and vanishes through a wall. Old hounds can learn new tricks, especially when their master has 29 million souls' power at his disposal.

Bobby stares at the wall and then looks at me.

"Belly rubs?"

"Hey, it's a dog. It may bite my hand off while I do it, but it's still a dog."

"Jesus."

"Yeah no. Not down here, but there is booze. So, while we wait for our partner in crime, I gotta question."

"Yeah?"

"How the Hell did the Winchester's name not get all over the news?" Bobby chuckles and shakes his head, angry and sad all at once.

"Their dad may have been an asshole but he was a good hunter, with a little bit of foresight. Moment he started huntin, all the Winchesters died in a car crash on paper. Never used that name again in official anything."

"Well, yeah. Why didn't you? Change your name that is."

"I did. Sam's damn journals didn't! And then Mr. King a Hell decided to share that with the world!"

"Yeah, that could be a problem. So care to tell me how much was accurate?"

"How much time ya got?"

"Until Crowley gets back and destroys us for taking his booze."

"Yeah about that. We really gonna steal from Crowley?"

"If I can make something new from the stuff in there, he may forgive me."

"Yeah, good for you, what about me!?"

"My idea, my fault."

"Yeah, doubt he'll see it that way. I should really stop you." I grin.

"You could try." He looks at me, a bit surprised. A fully trained hunter vs someone with no experience?

"Right. Uh-huh."

"I got pointy teeth, obscene jaw strength, annoyingly flexible, not easily choked, annnnd a Hellhound I've been giving belly rubs to for 80 plus years whenever Crowley leaves me here. You have everything I'm your favor when it comes to training and strength, but you got none of your tools." My one real strength proves a point by growling happily as it poofs into the room. The Hellhound immediately lays on its back and rolls back and forth. "Good girl! Is Rowena coming?" There is an affirming growl as I lean over and run my hands down with the grain of the hide. As soon as I change direction I get three nicks on my fingers, then two more, then four more. It is like layers upon layers of hedgehog or puffer fish spines. 'It's fur Bobby, but not as we know it.' "Who's a good girl? Yes you are!"

"That 'good girl' brings souls to Hell."

"It's her job, and she's good at it. She was trained to do it. Don't blame the pit bull for the way it was trained. Sure these are one of the few things that are vicious by nature, but I bet if I got a pup I could train it to be a guard dog."

"Yeah, a dog that tears up trespassers and eats them."

"That sounds like a great guard dog, even gets rid of the evidence. Isn't that right? Yes it is!" I let her lick my hand for a moment, cleaning off the bits of red. I still don't really get how souls 'bleed' down here, but hey, it happens. Probably the same reason souls appear wearing tangible clothes in Hell. Gotta say, I'd rather have clothes and cuts that bleed instead of being naked and cut open to find I'm empty. I'm broken out of my train of thought by Bobby's voice.

"The Hell is wrong with you?" I look up at Bobby's comment to see him staring at me.

"Probably a lot of things." We are interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Crowley! Growley implied ye wanted me?"

"Not quite Rowena! Think ya can get in?" There is silence. I can tell she's pondering all the reasons and ramifications if she did. "We're gonna raid your son's liquor cabinet!"

"Oh! A worthier cause I ain't heard in a decade!" There is a click and the door opens with ease. I see her slide her hand out of her pocket as she enters.

"Fuck Rowena. Don't. Ugh. You made a fucking copy of the skeleton key didn't you?" She looks at me, a bit startled at my inarticulate outburst. If she had done it, I now had that idea in my head and Crowley would know.

"What? Nay. That thing has magic that lets it work, any copy would jest be a key."

"Right. Sure. I totally believe you."

"It's true. It's the first skeleton key, not really something ye can copy." I sigh. I hope for her sake that she isn't lying. "Now. What's this about raiding Fergus's liquor cabinet?"

"She's suicidal is what she is."

"Not for a long time Bobby. What I am, is bored and stupid. Now, the only rule I'm gonna say is we don't fucking touch his scotch. That, Would be suicidal. So, can we open this without breaking anything Rowena?" We all look at the cabinet. It is freestanding and mahogany. Or another wood that has been stained, probably with blood. It is in two parts. The upper part where the liquor is and the bottom part where the glasses are. Both are concealed by full wooden doors that are locked. Unlike most liquor cabinets that let you glimpse the contents, this one obscures everything inside. The only hint that this contains liquor are the wine glasses that hang the outside.

Both doors are covered in deep engraved warding symbols. There was more than liquor in this cabinet, if the fact that this contained some of the last bottles of Craig Scotch Crowley preferred was not enough for the warding.

Rowena goes over to look at it. She leans over and whispers some choice words. The warding lights up slightly before she quickly stops so it doesn't alert anyone. She frowns.

"Without breaking it, nay. Ye need a password, or to be immune to warding. That would mean human, which none of ye are anymore, ye are souls."

I pause and think. Password. So something pronounceable. Something no one would really think of him saying but he wouldn't hate saying if he had to. Something uncommon. Something from before he could just ignore warding. Something no one else knew. So nothing from the show. Nothing from before it or during his life. That meant probably something from my time with him but that he didn't think I knew about. Because the time that no one would know about but him would be those two months he was with me when I was unconscious. So… I stand up and go over to the cupboard and kneel, and start whispering.

It takes a few minutes, trying to remember all the names, but soon enough there is a click, and the door swings open. I grin. Knew it. He is a fan of speculative fiction just like his persona.

"H-how?" Whispers Rowena from the right.

"Been with him for a bit, and I am an unfortunate amount of intelligent."

"How so?" Asks Bobby as I stand and open the cupboard.

"Enough to get into trouble. And don't ask me what the password was. Now oooh." I ignore the twenty some bottles of scotch on the top shelf and pick up one of three very large red bottles in the center. "What is this?"

"Blood alcohol." Says Rowena.

"What, like from Klingons?" Asks Bobby and I look up. "What?"

"I pegged you for a Star Wars guy."

"Why in the Hell would you do that?"

"Because shorter, more action?"

"Exactly the reason I like Trek. More thinkin, more to watch. Had to pass the dark nights waiting for the idjits to call about the end of the world somehow."

"What, moonshine didn't help?"

"Not when you gotta couple of decades worth a tolerance."

"Would someone tell me what a Klingon is?" We both look at Rowena.

"Did you...just like...not watch tv in your 500 plus years on earth?"

"Nay. I had better things to do."

"Yeah. Running from covens, fucking, killing, magic, blah blah. What did you do for fun?"

"That was fun dearie." I roll my eyes and examine the top of the bottle. It's corked with a normal cork, I'd have guessed a bit fancier but hey it works

"Ok. To relax then!?" I ask while I pull at the cork in the bottle, which surprisingly leaves its home with ease.

"I read."

"What?" Asks Bobby. I sniff the bottle. The aroma is Rancid. This was a wine, as in past tense. It had not been recorked properly. With the addition of blood, or whatever, this had gone bad in the worst way. It is rancid and burns my eyes. I blink and set it down, eyes watering, barely taking in the conversation that continues around me.

"What do ye mean? Are ye surprised I read?"

"No! What do you read you red haired harpy?"

"Well I prefer poet-"

"She reads the original trashy romance, Shakespeare." I interrupt as I try to uncork one of the unopened bottles.

"Shakespeare ain't trashy." Says Bobby.

"Now. Back then? Have you seen the amount of dick jokes? Perhaps trashy isn't the right word, but you get my point. Can you open this?" I pass the bottle to Bobby and search further into the cabinet.

"Fuck no, I ain't touching blood wine."

"Really dear; a hunter for over 40 years, in Hell for at least 20, and that bothers ye?"

"I don't know Whose blood that is."

"I'll bet you $20 it's mine." They both look at me, I can feel their eyes on my back. "I did have a body for a while guys and I have a contract with the King of Hell, who was a blood addict. Who then wasn't. Put two and two together. Just open the bottle."

"What's wrong with the other one dear?"

"Went bad."

"Like vinegar bad?" I sigh and turn around.

"No. Not unless you also happen to like rancid vinegar."

"Vinegar is just wine that-"

"No. It's not. The process to make wine and vinegar is similar, but you have a mother, a bacterial culture, for vinegar. You want good vinegar, you control what that is. You want crappy vinegar, leave some wine out to air."

"What are you, an encyclopedia?"

"No. My parents made vinegar, and had a vineyard, and drank wine. I also like wine. You want to know about wine or vinegar, ask, I have an okayish knowledge. Sooo, I'd like to try that wine, and before you go on about how wrong and gross it is, I'm Fucking Dead! Do Not Care! Now, I also need to figure out if I can make something new from the stuff in here."

"Why?"

"So Crowley will be met with something nice, not just us rummaging through his shit when he gets back. Ok, grand marnier…Standard for cocktails." I start muttering as I rummage through the numerous bottles, ignoring whatever Rowena and Bobby are talking about.

Crowley has all the basics, albeit expensive ones, but he has few mixers. Those require refrigeration and a will to actually make your own drink as opposed to ordering someone to do it for you. He doesn't have fresh fruit, or a muddler, or herbs. He does have a very nice tequila liqueur though, one you can't really get outside of Mexico. Really good stuff. However that is pretty much the only thing I recognize. Every other brand name, no clue. If the bottle even had a label.

"Holy Hell...that's Pappy Van Winkle."

"What?" I turn and look at Bobby to see where he is pointing. It's a thin bottle, filled with amber, mostly full. The name Pappy Van Winkle curves across the top of the label.

"Cheapest bottle you can Git is still over $60, and I doubt Crowley got anything less than the $300 one."

"I mean, probably, but I don't like whiskey often, and I'm sure as Hell not using something that expensive to make a mixed drink. You like it?"

"I got one bottle for killing a redcap at their distillery, that was their thank you. Best one I ever got. So yeah, pass that here."

"You got the wine open yet?" Bobby glares and exhales harshly, but uncorks the bottle. I pass him the bottle I am holding and a whiskey glass.

"Me too darlin."

"He's pouring, I know barely anything about whiskey." I hand Rowena a glass and grab the bottle of 'wine.' It's one of those obnoxiously large bottles, the ones that are simple and smooth and hold about three regular bottles worth of wine. I sniff, smells like wine.

"So, yer a whiskey gal?"

"Of course Robert, where do ye think Fergus got it frem?" I roll my eyes as I pour some of the wine into a glass. It moves just a bit more slowly than regular wine, probably the blood, but the dark red color is the same. I turn the glass, it has legs that are a bit more opaque than normal, but it otherwise looks fine. I set the glass down to let it air and go back to rummaging in the cabinet for Something to use to make a drink.

I listen to the two of them bicker about literary choices as I push and move bottles around. Some are most definitely older than the Declaration of Independence. One is blue and has a very nice skull on it and I think a skull inside it too. Another has the many pointed star symbol for magical power and it crackles slightly when I push it to the side. I'm a bit more careful after that.

Finally, in the back, I spy a full bottle of ruby port. That is a drink I know. Next to it is an almost full bottle of crown royal. So not ludicrously expensive. And I get an idea. I grab both and set them aside for a moment, grab the grandmarnier, and close the cabinet.

"You git an idea already?"

"Yeah, it'll probably suck." I sigh as I sit down on the ground with the glass.

"Then why would ye serve it to him?"

"Oh no, it'll probably taste great, it'll just suck for me. Cuz I'm not asking one of you to open a vein for this, or taste it to make sure it isn't gross." I ignore Bobby's stare and sip of the wine. It's base was a merlot, I can tell by the tannin. However it was a blend, I don't know with what besides blood but it's a bit sweeter than merlot I'm used to. However the biggest difference is the hanging aftertaste of iron and salt along with a heavier mouthfeel. The iron blends well with the tannin and whatever barrel it was aged in. It's weird, but not a bad wine. As in I'd buy this if it was on sale and maybe once in a blue moon, or considering the beverage, a blood moon.

"Yer gonna...make him a drink with yer blood?" I take another sip and nod.

"Considering I think this was made with mine and he didn't seem to mind the taste of it straight, I see no reason not to."

"Fergus Drank blood? Like a common demon?" I laugh at Rowena's comment.

"Like a common nothing. He used it to torture me. Make fun of me. Make me uncomfortable. Diabolical bastard. Good actor though. Great actor."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothin."

"I believe that's a lie dearie."

"Moving on. How's the whiskey?"

"Not as good apparently as what ye don't want to tell us." I sigh and look at my glass, and take a long drink.

"I need So much more alcohol before we delve into that."

"Stallin', I see."

"Fuck yes. Now, we lack any sort of cutting implement, right?" I look to my companions for affirmation, neither move so I assume I'm right. "Here girl, here Growley! Belly rub?" There is growling and the large demonic beast pulls itself over by its front paws and rolls onto its back in front of me. "Who's a good girl, yes you are." I run my hand over her belly until it bleeds from a thousand little cuts. They are those type of cuts that hurt for a millisecond when made but then don't really do anything but sting and bleed unless you pull on them. Paper cuts, thousands. I sigh at the silence. "Please return to your previously scheduled conversation while I do this."

"So… blood...or is it acting?"

"Oh my god Rowena, no! Not talking about it! And don't even try to bring it up to your son. Have the decency to at least try to wait until I'm drunk to ask me. Thank god I wasn't thinking about this when you were beside me. Ugh, soul forms are so confusing."

"Different rules for souls in each realm darlin. Wouldn't do to have an intangible soul in Hell, can't exactly be tortured. So yes it can be complicated, but since when has anything simple?"

"Never. How about you Bobby, anything ever simple for you?"

"Puberty, that was confusin but simple compared to everythin that came after."

"Can't say I disagree. Bein an adult is hard." I bring my hand up from petting Growley and it's covered in blood, nearly dripping. So, not enough, not until it's dripping. Hands were so weird. So sensitive, but if cut certain ways, don't hurt at all. I go back to petting the very happy dog. "So what do you read Robert?"

"Biographies mostly. People gettin to live normal lives, find out what that's like. You?"

"Fantasy, horror, and informational books on mythology and science. Rowena, besides Shakespeare?"

"Well besides magic-"

"Drink!" They both stare at me. "That was Such a stereotypical response. Everytime one of us says something cliche, stereotypical, lies or some such we're gonna drink. More we lie, more drunk we get, more honest we are, more shit faced we are when the king gets back. Hopefully too shitfaced for him to have any fun other than join us. Sound good?" I take a sip and grin.

"You are so weird."

"Says the hunter and the witch to the only non-magical person in the room. So?"

"You gotta deal Chew Toy." I grin and toast Robert, so we were going for the bone tonight.

"Good to hear princess. Red?"

"Fine. I read romance like you said, but I quiet enjoy gossip magazine-"

"Drink!" Rowena stares.

"How is that drink worthy?"

"Rowena, how are you gonna find your marks for your plots besides magazines like that?"

"True, but used to. I'm dead now and still read them. So. Ye take a drink."

"Fair." I do and go to set the glass down.

"Oh nay. Ye're drinkin wine and we're drinkin whiskey, ye're drainin that cup darlin." I chuckle and toast her and drain the cup.

"Fair again. Was hoping you wouldn't catch that." I bring up my hand and watch it drip onto the floor. I sigh.

"Also Agatha Christie."

"What?"

"Well reading works by a fellow witch is always nice."

"What?" Says Bobby.

"All of her books are recipes dear. The Orient Express. Ritual for bestowin the ability of telekinesis on the participants."

"What?!" We both say.

"Ye need 12 people, each person must use their own knife, each person must represent one of the tarot, the sacrifice must-"

"Now just hold on a minute. No. I've read my share of murder mysteries by her and there is no way every one of those books is a ritual."

"Well, which have ye read?"

"..."

"Robert…"

"All of them alright!"

"Poirot or Marple Bobby?" They both look at me.

"What? I watched most of Poirot with my mom and dad. Ze little grey cells. Just...Keep driving this conversation for a moment. I need to make a drink or two. Sorry Growley, belly rub time is over, so I need you to move." There is a whine and any angry growl but she moves and slumps right next to Bobby, much to his discomfort and my amusement. I grab a cup and hold my hand over it, letting it drip while I fill some other glasses with port, grandmarnier, and crown royal. They watch me.

"Well? Poirot or Marple?"

"Well Poirot is where she hid her ritu-"

"No she did not! I-"

"Well, not every single one, but if you don't like that, you should hear what she hid in Marp-"

"Don't you Dare ruin Marple for me!"

"Oh but the-"

"Guys, the yelling is wearing on me, c'mon. Uhhhh. Bobby, what was the most annoying thing about Dean?"

"Never put the damn beer back in the fridge."

"Really? I thought it would have been his inability to talk about his feelings, same with Sam. Or the lying. Or the-"

"Dean was raised a man's man. Bein anythin less than macho wasn't allowed."

"Goddamn toxic masculinity. You know men used to wear heels, not women? God the world turns on its head so frequently."

"About every century or so, like clockwork. And drink."

"What? Why?"

"Because every time ye have info in even the general vicinity of a topic, ye spew it out if ye are angry, or anxious, or uncomf-."

"Noticed that did you? Fine." I pour myself another glass and take a long drink. I look at the bottle. "Wish there was a proof on this." I look at the cup underneath my hand and see it's barely half way full. I sigh.

"Want some help darlin?"

"Right, fuck, magic."

"No, well yes, but I happened to see a corkscrew with a knife on it." She points and I see the very nice ivory cork screw with a knife on the side.

"And you didn't think to mention that until now?"

"Just saw it when ye moved the bottle."

"Great. Can someone cut me?"

"What? No. Do it yerself." I roll my eyes and grab the knife and open it. It's a knife for cutting wax or metal on bottles, not flesh. Not something I'm used to using for, well, cutting flesh.

"It's too thick, not sharp enough."

"What are ya talking about? A knife is a knife."

"Not if you don't want to slice into a nerve wrong. I'm just, I'm not used to cutting myself…"

There is a silence, it hangs and then.

"Drink darlin." I look at Rowena and sigh... and drain the cup. Robert looks at me; the 25 looking couple of centuries old soul, and can only see a broken kid.

"Can someone just please do it for me, the knife isn't sharp enough."

"We ain't doin it Bec. At least I ain't, I am done cuttin up people I don't wanna cut up." I look at the cup, it's barely over half full, the drops have slowed down due to how small the cuts are. I swallow and look at the Hell hound, laying on its side. I don't wanna scrape up my hand any more. I step closer and bend down, looking for a single loose spine/barb/razor. I rub her belly once again with the grain, a bit harder, until one comes out. I take a breath and pick it up and head back to my seat, and sit down. I look at the 'blade' and sigh.

"Either of you had problems like this?"

"Does alcohol poisoning count?"

"Yes it does. Rowena?"

"No. The world did enough of that for me."

"See, that's why most people fall into bad habits."

"I jest tried to get even."

"Yeah, well most people don't know magic is an option. And drink." Rowena sighs but takes a drink from her whiskey. I twist the 'blade' around in my fingers and then, with another breath, slice my wrist like I had when I had first met Crowley. Like I hadn't since that night. It would have violated Duty of Care after all, back when I had a body.

I, we, watch the blood pour into the cup, and then almost over flow. I quickly move my wrist over the glass with the port and let it drip there for a bit.

"Life is hard, it doesn't matter your situation. Rich, poor, stable or not, everyone has something inside eating at them at some point in their life."

"What was yers?" I look at Rowena.

"Isn't that a bit personal?"

"Darlin, ye know mine, ye know Robert's, ye watched a show based on a diary of someone who was close to us both. We know nothing about ye that ye didn't feed us or we didn't search out. The main thing, I believe, that we both dug from ye was yer memories of that show. Am I right Robert?"

"She's right Bec, you're the enigma here."

"Joy. Well, you're both in luck. There is very little I don't feel comfortable sharing. I have mental health issues, anxiety out the wazoo. Plus clinical and seasonal depression, it's no wonder I'm not exactly stable."

"That ain't what was eating at you though. Spill, or...drink some a Crowley's Scotch." My eyes widen.

"Why Bobby Singer, I didn't know you were so devious."

"I prefer harsh. So?"

"You really wanna open a minute long boring monologue about a depressed artist who doesn't matter?"

"Darlin, you changed Crowley into-" I interrupt her with something easier to talk about.

"Yeah, let's not talk about that. Let's talk about mental health and suicide, that's fucking easier." I take a breath and go into the long explanation I have thought of and told many times. "I...was a weird geeky kid with adhd, anxiety, and crap social skills. No friends, mostly bullies. So I connected my self worth with my ability to please others and my skills as an artist." I can see Bobby wince at this and nod. "Yeah, you get it. Like connecting your self worth with how many monsters you kill or people you save. It'll never be a perfect score, so you'll never be satisfied. Bet you've seen some hunters waste away from that… But I survived...And then someone told me I would most likely never be an artist." I gesture at my wrist. "Fun times especially scone I was trying a new medication at the time. So...Cries for attention, thoughts of jumping in front of cars...Fortunately I was young and stupid and survived to… be not that. There's a bit more, but that's where it started." I shake my hand off and wipe it on my shirt, and then grab some open bottle of vodka and pour it on my hand and wrist. I then proceed to lick my hand. They stare. "What, that's probably a $70 bottle of vodka. I'm not wasting that, or getting blood on his floor."

"You're acting like you didn't just tell two people you tried to kill yourself, repeatedly." Says Bobby.

"The more we treat things like that as taboo to talk about, the less people who actually need help will come forward. They will wait until something breaks, like I did. So no, if someone asks me, I have no shame regarding that. Just regrets about how it hurt others close to me. So. Now that we are all thoroughly sad, can we please move on?"

"No, you bared your heart far too easily for that to be your burden." Fuck. He was right.

"Look, I can promise you, the stuff I keep secret is just embarrassing shit, or some personal private shit, not life changing things. The big stuff, I have no problem sharing. Ask me anything that isn't about sex or embarrassing body stuff and I will probably answer."

"Really?"

"Really. Oh, and my thoughts regarding my involvement in what Crowley has become, because it makes my brain hurt. Also, why are we talking about this, it's boring. Bobby, what was the stupidest thing you've ever seen the boys do? Rowena, what was Crowley like as a kid? I was a fucking nightmare. Reminisce." I look down at the port mixed with my blood and pick it up, take a big breath, and taste it. I immediately swallow it. "Ok, this ruby port is too sweet for blood...or…" I look at the whiskey. "That could work."

"Why are ya doin this?"

"I like making stuff. Haven't gotten the chance to physically make something myself in...decade or so. This is the medium available."

"So is the blood or acting a kink or an embarrassing story?" Says Rowena.

"Oh my god no. You know what, I'll drink some of the fucking scotch."

"Your funeral Bec."

"I'm dead."

"We all know that don't matter."

"Yeah, well, if he wants to punish me, he needs me around. Can't exactly do that if I don't exist. So." I reach up to the top shelf and grab the clear bottle with the light yellow liquid. There is at least some already missing. I open it, take a sip, and gag. It burns and tastes like old batteries smell.

"What?" Asks Bobby.

"Isn't Glencraig. This isn't whiskey. I think it's acid." I jump down and swiftly drink some of the wine. A lot of the wine. And get dizzy. "Ooohkay, fuck. Dizzy. I hate dizzy." Rowena grabs the bottle of scotch and sniffs it, recoiling.

"That's not just acid darlin, it's got magic, and it's been blessed."

"An ye can tell that?" There is a silence, and a moment before I realize what happened. "Sorry sorry. If I hear a strong accent for long enough I start talking in it. I'm jest, just, gonna sit down. Fuck."

"Why would he bless and poison his own scotch?"

"He wouldn't Robert, he Would put it somewhere else and replace it with something less friendly." I cough.

"Yeah, yeah he fuckin would do that. Can you tell what the magic was? Will it alert him?"

"Oh no. Nothing that fancy. Probably just make ye thirsty for more of this." I look at the bottle and nearly barf.

"Nope. Not even a little." I look at the glasses below me, full of blood, port, whiskey, and grand marnier, and also nearly barf at that. My stomach is not happy. Thankfully it was just a sip and it's not Luke I haven't been through worse pain. I fuckin hate nausea tho.

"Oh just suck it up ya pussy."

"I am Not afraid of this, I'm in Pain Bobby, and I need to be able to taste these drinks. I'm not handing Crowley something I haven't tested." I sit down on the floor and put my head in my hands. "Just, just put the bottle back and talk amongst yourselves."

"Amongst ourselves? The Hell kinda language is that?"

"My syntax can get weird when I'm inebriated, ok. Just, put the bottle back." I hear clinking and nod as I sit there for a bit, head in hands and listen to the two others in this room.

"So, any idea on how to get outta here?"

"For ye Robert Singer? Nay. None that ye'd like."

"How so?"

"Do ye want to become a demon?"

"Hell no!" Say's Bobby with incredulity and offense.

"I'm surprised ye haven't done more to try to escape."

"I'm persistent, not an idjit. Purgatory has dragoness and I ain't exactly got a reaper on speed dial. Plus Billie kinda hunkered down on the illegal trafficking. There are demons out side this room, and I ain't got weapons. No one down here is gonna do me a favor outta the goodness of their heart. I ain't got many options besides possessin' a meatsuit, of which there are exactly none. At least Crowley can't destroy me." I laugh.

"Of course he can. He can tie you to a rack, demonize you, turn you back human if he wants a quicker meal, and fucking eat you Bobby. He's the king of loopholes, and trust me, there's always a loophole. Rowena, this fucking sucks, don't you have-"

"Not without ingredients dearie. Not for a disenchantment spell."

"Fuuuck. Ok. Ok. I got this." I stand up and look at the room. I know he had certain spell ingredients in here somewhere, well… "I I just need some chalk. A base."

"Oh for pete's sake. Imperi torpens dolor." Relief floods through me as Rowena points and incants. I take a deep sigh of relief then glare at Rowena.

"I thought you couldn't fucking help!"

"Oh, yer still violently ill, you jest can't feel it darlin. You could be quickly dyin, and not know it."

"Welp, already dead, so I'm great. Thank you."

"You're welcome darlin." I take another breath and sit down. Back to work. I take the cup with the grand marnier and drink it, then put the bottle away. I pour half the whiskey into the glass and swirl it around, then pour some of the blood in. I taste it. Yup. Gross. I drink it anyway so I don't accidentally mix it with something else. Don't exactly have a place to pour it out.

"Robert, what were ye plannin on doin if ye escaped? You tryin to stop my son?"

"Of course. He's got his job, I got mine."

"Heh, and what would you try and do Bobby?" I pour half the port blood mixture into the rest of the whiskey and taste that. I sigh. That was good. Gross, but good. So, yeah, perfect for a demon. I pour in a bit more blood and set it aside. I have something to give Crowley when he comes back. I take a breath and pull myself back up on the stool and pour myself some of the port. I am just a bit tired of the taste of blood.

"Dunno, probably try to get back into heaven, tell the angels exactly what his abilities are."

"They already know that. He ransacked heaven over 100 years ago, when they canceled the contracts." Bobby stares at me.

"They did what?"

"You heard me. Demon tablet."

"That doesn't make a lick a' sense. If Dragoness came up with the deals then…"

"What, you think God is too good to listen to a co-writer? One he Made? The literal most fun thing in writing is taking someone else's idea and running with it, twisting it, making it your own or better or-"

"Ok fine. Let's just say that's true for the sake of movin to my next question. How did Crowley even restart things?"

"I told you. He fucking stormed heaven. I really believe that was the last chance anyone had to kill him easily. Anyway, that's when he took the tablet to a deceased prophet. Didn't really feel like hunting down the new one I guess, who was probably under lock and key anyway. Then he broke up that tablet into tiny fucking pieces and did I don't know what with them."

"But-" the door clicks and we all look up. It swings open to reveal Crowley whose face goes from preoccupied with something to angry, to incredulous, to mildly impressed, to curious within moments. We all just sit and wait.

"How." The question is more demand than question and I happily comply.

"Crowley. When I was alive. I always put my books back in order, when I remember to put them back, so when a few weren't...well. I reread those." I toast him. "Ursula K LeGuin. Good choice. Get's real creepy real quick too."

"How the fuck do you remember something like that Bec?" Asks Bobby as Crowley is trying to decide whether he is going to boil me alive or have a drink with me, or boil me alive in his drink.

"Because I thought it was interesting and my mind latches on to the Weirdest shit. Like one time at a sculpture garden, there was a bench made of nickels, I found the only Canadian nickel in there. Oh, or the fact that in D&D there used to be more types of Modrons in earlier editions. Or that iron's atomic symbol is FE is funny to me because iron binds fae creatures. Absolutely nothing useful." I take a sip and look at them. "Do you want me to keep going? Cus I can keep going with this inanity for hours. Or I can give the King of Hell his drink." At this Crowley looks up with a raised brow.

"You want me to believe you broke into my liquor cabinet for my benefit?" I chuckle, but grab his drink and stand.

"Crowley, if you were that gullible I would have broken more than your cabinet a long time ago. You're not, so Here. Have an attempt at placation with this port wine, whiskey, and soul blood." I walk over and hold it out. He looks at me, at the two others, and snaps his fingers. We all freeze, literally.

He sighs, takes the drink from my hand, and sits in the bone chair. He takes a sip and then holds the glass by the top, letting it dangle.

"You know this is just a spodiodi with blood, right? You think I haven't added a bit of blood to almost every type of drink there is?" My heart sinks, he had already had this… he had probably had most everything a demon would like that I could make with the ingredients down here.

My eyes light up, I have an idea. He's had millennia to try all the things a demon could possibly try. That a demon could try. He could try more things now. I had been going about this all wrong. I strain and shake my head, trying to talk.

"Does my pet have an idear? If it's not better than this I'll just drink you." He let's all of us go and we slump a moment, Bobby barely holding onto his whiskey. I breathe. We all breathe heavily. I swallow and gasp for a moment.

"Yup." I cough a minute into the silence. "But I need your torture kit and-"

"You, need something of mine. And I'm just supposed to give it to you?"

"It's to make a drink for you! And I need to be healed! Your fucking acid scotch-"

"You drank my scotch?" There is complete silence as the three of us ponder what to do.

"It was part of a deal Fergus. A drinkin' game." Says Rowena trying to take some of his focus off me.

"You were using my scotch, my good scotch, for a drinking game!?"

"If ya didn't want to answer a question, ya had to drink from Crowley's special reserve. Risk your 'highnesses' ire. Yer firstborn contract holder here was the only one dumb enough to risk it, and it wasn't yer good scotch anyway." Crowley blinks and looks from Bobby to me, curious as to what I'd risk his wrath to hide.

"Crowley, I don't wanna talk about it. I don't wanna talk about how I helped you get powerful. I don't wanna talk about how I feel about that. I don't wanna talk about admiration or my feelings for what I thought was a fictional character and an actor!"

"Ye had a crush on Fergus!?" I can see Rowena's mental turmoil and Bobby's disgust clearly. Crowley is just sitting happily watching my inner turmoil.

"Oh Hell no. That would have been a more toxic relationship than Joker and Harley Quinn. But I thought his mind and wit were sharp and hot. Both the actor and the character, that I had no idea were the same fucking person! That's not the problem!"

"The problem, her problem, is that she let that depiction of me make her confident enough to sign a deal. But there-" I snarl. I had to think fast.

"You finally have something to hold over my head again and you're just gonna waste it here?" He pauses and looks at me, as do Rowena and Bobby.

"What happened to having no secrets so they don't have a hold over ya?" I sigh at Bobby.

"I don't care if you know, I just don't wanna talk about it myself, out loud. It's so much easier to just...feel it and-"

"She doesn't want to tell you she's proud of what she has done Robert Singer." I cringe. Yeah. His silent anger and confusion feel like heat. With my cold shame they create an invisible storm where our emotions find each other.

"What? Bec, what's he mean?" I can't look at him, at Bobby, so I just look at the floor.

"He means what he said. I'm proud of my accomplishment, of my ideas and how well they succeeded. It's wrong, but…" The silence weighs heavy like the pressure before a storm breaks; the one we just created moments earlier is about to rain down and let loose thunder.

"You sick c-" And here's the thunder.

"Rude. Of course she's proud of her ideas, it just happened that her ideas were used by me." Here's the rain.

"I don't need your defense Crowley." Here's the lightning. Our little maelstrom is complete.

"You're Proud of the fact that your idea has cost millions their souls!?"

"The person who invented dynamite didn't know it was gonna be used for fucking war! I thought I was just damning myself! Maybe making a contract that might save some Other souls from torture! Maybe making Crowley a bit harder to kill! He was already immortal!"

"Yeah well now he's damn near invincible!"

"Near?" The argument stops as we look at Crowley.

"There is always something Crowley. The options just get more and more slim." I say nervously, hoping this storm isn't about to turn into a hurricane. Perhaps this calm is just the eye of the storm. Perhaps we are about to be blown away and dashed against the walls.

"And what are the options for me?"

"The god killer thing?" He scoffs at my question, even Bobby smiles. "Look, I have no clue how much of everything on that show was true! There was a lot! C'mon! You know how shows are, everything must get more and more dire as the heroes face ever greater odds."

"Ya still fucked up buttercup."

"You don't think I know that? Jesus c-"

"Language. And Robert. Blame the real culprits, not Chew Toy. If your two boys hadn't woken me up, this wouldn't be happening. But no, they couldn't have just talked to Rowena about the contract, or waited for her to realize how stupid it was. They just assumed she went bad when she took the contract they used to fix The Colt so they could kill yet another problem they created! So stop it. And Chew Toy. No cursing."

"Oh fuck off I've said worse than that. At least I'm not taking God's true name in vain. Now to move as far away from this topic as possible… One: would you kindly, your highness, get me the holy water from your torture kit?" He regards me for a moment and I don't know if he's going to put me through immense pain, call me back, or actually do what I ask. It's refreshing and scary, to have a physical form and not know what will happen to it.

He snaps and the holy water appears in front of me. Hurricane Crowley has at least temporarily dissipated over the ocean.

"Thank you." I grab it, and march over to the liquor cabinet to grab the vodka and grand marnier. "Two. Why don't demons, besides the ones in the pits, walk around Hell in their true forms?"

"Darlin, I can answer that, they are vulnerable." Bobby looks at Rowena incredulously.

"The eight foot tall thing in the pit with three mouths and claws that look like rock, is vulnerable?"

"Most powerful, most vulnerable. You can't kill smoke, smoke can't attack very well. Solid form, easier to hit, on both ends. That form is why we aren't just 'twisted, perverted, evil spirits' Singer. That form is what would be on earth if the gates of Hell were destroyed." Crowley muses for a moment. It would be a good time, for about a decade. Being able to feel things with his own hands, eat with his own mouths, do a lot of horrible things. And then the humans would be extinct and it'd be boring.

"Wait, so...a regular knife could kill a demon in its natural form?"

"If you could get close enough. And not get eaten. It has happened once or twice; a mortal getting close enough to kill a demon, the getting eaten happens more often. Silly witches trying to broker deals, hunters trying to find some artifact."

"But...you're immortal. So why not walk around without the meat suit?" I nod in agreement with Bobby's question.

"They don't make Armani suits in my size. And it makes me hungry; being that size, with more than one mouth, I just want to put everything in them." I shudder. He had taken his true form once or twice with me along for the ride. That's where the crown showing he was king manifested. All menacing atop his head, radiating heat and malevolence.

It was a horrible experience. A being of pure sin. With smoke everything felt far away and diluted...in his true form… I swallow, hands shaking a bit as I try to unscrew the holy water. Crowley notices.

"Did you have a good time for those three days Chew Toy? That is the main benefit to being your true self; it's very visceral, direct." Bobby looks at me, then to Crowley.

"What did you do that She won't talk about?"

"Oh, I could tell you Bobby, you don't wanna hear." I've finally gotten the cap to start unscrewing and I focus on that. I fail. All I can remember is the excess. He felt dense and empty. Like a...a thick bag of holding. The magic that went into making the item was huge, made it powerful, but it was empty, waiting to be filled. Want. That's all that form was. Twelve feet three inches of want. No matter how many souls were there, no matter what he did, ate, created, or destroyed... it was always More. My hand shakes and I set down the flask and just try to breathe. Crowley couldn't hide his feelings or thoughts in that form because he was solid. Or something. And I sat in one of his stomachs... just feeling.

Most demons had two stomachs. One for food, one for souls. When demons talked about souls they had or earned, that's what they meant, how many they had there. They weren't eaten, just kept. Unless you were a crossroads demon, you had maybe fifty, no matter your age. Sure princes or white eyes could hold a bit more but a stomach can only hold so much, and Hell liked its rules. You could break them with magic or toys, but there would be prices. Painful prices.

The souls in that stomach most demons had didn't exude feelings, or think, or do anything other than provide a tiny bit of power and amusement. And once there, those souls don't come out unless the demon is killed, and even then, they just go back to Hell. If a demon circumvented that, filled the rest of their body with souls… well if they did it wrong it started to wear on their true form just as it wore in Castiel's vessel. A demon who did that would eventually break down. It could take millennia, just the moments hopping from vessel to vessel where the souls attacked them and bit the host… but those short moments would add up and they would die.

Crossroads demons were different. They had three stomachs, one for food, one for their personal souls, one for contracts. The souls, or contracts, in the third stomach could be taken out at will. The soul was put into the pit or the second stomach and the contract, once completed, went into the filing system.

I wasn't even sure they were 'stomachs' in the strictest sense. They were more like...prisons. Still, it was disturbing when a demon's form let you see their 'stomachs'. Not a pretty sight.

"Bec. Bec!" I look up to find everyone staring at me.

"What?"

"You weren't exactly respondin' to us there. You ok?" I chuckle.

"No. I was thinking about Crowley's true form." Bobby grins and sips the whiskey.

"What? He an ugly sonofabitch?"

"Hard to be ugly when you don't have a face Bobby. And drink, you predictable sonofabitch." Bobby grumbles but drinks while Crowley smiles.

"Set face. Don't have a set face, Chew Toy."

"What?"

"Crowley is an actor, Bobby. He wears the face that gets the job done. His true form shows that. Another reason a lot of demons don't walk around naked, it's very telling." I swallow and pause, reading Bobby's disbelief. He'd only ever seen one side of Crowley after all. "The changes he makes are minute most of the time, but he can be the suave interesting stranger, the mean boss, the handsome dinner date, Hell he can be a whimpering slave. Whatever is needed to reach his goal, a facade over his true intentions." Bobby looks at Crowley who just sits with a self assured smile and raised brows, enjoying the short biography on himself.

"So? No face don't seem particularly scary compared to some of what's down here."

"It's not. That's not what's scary. He's the only demon with five stomachs." Bobby blinks, Rowena also looks up from her drink. She didn't know this either.

"I thought the most a demon could have was three, Fergus?"

"Well, one comes with the crown." Crowley taps his head and we can hear a very faint 'ting.'

"Wait, so you had all the souls a Hell, if I'm gettin that that what the stomach would be for, a direct link for power?" Crowley nods. "So you had all that, and still weren't a match for Lucifer?" Bobby looks at Crowley with a bit of fear and awe, not for him but for something in the past.

"Different kind of power darling. Not 'alter existence power'. Power over souls. Power to heal. Power to control how Hell works. Maybe catch Luci unawares once or twice. But no, not too much power that could be used outside Hell. Nothing that could tip the scales as long as heaven does its job." Bobby sighs.

"I know I shouldn't ask, but what's the other for then?"

"The souls he's currently pulling apart." Both Rowena and Bobby look at me, then at Crowley, who has at some point obtained a glass of scotch. The implications in this are...confounding and disturbing to say the least.

"That would mean...he's always had the ability to do this… to...kill souls." Says Bobby, Rowena is silent. Crowley raises his hands in a manner of fact way and begins a lovely terrifying monologue.

"I had the tool but no instruction manual. I didn't have anyone to teach me after all. Unique is not a good thing down here." Crowley takes a sip of his drink and surveys the room. "Fortunately, unlike some, my inner workings aren't visible. I'd have been pulled apart and killed. Red is one thing, but four stomachs? I kept that quiet until I forgot about it." He takes a sip and regards the other two while they sit in silence. I am concentrating on forgetting what I felt and found out. That I was in the contracts' prison. That if he ever came down here and I was in any of the others…Crowley continues talking. "It was a pleasant surprise to come back down here for a rare stretch one day and just...find it full. It was the main reason I didn't walk around down here, why I hated Hell. Four stomachs. I was always hungry, and it wasn't just for cheeseburgers or sex." Bobby chokes on his drink. "What, you thought the first stomach was for just regular food? Demons Eat sin. Drink fear. Hate is a dessert to most. Ours. Others." Bobby is still coughing and looks a bit green in the face as his own mind, just as quick as mine at making connections and theories, begins to do just that. Crowley continues, seeing how much farther he can make Bobby's mind spiral. "Each demon has a preference. Why do you think some eat children? They aren't particularly good or filling, but the sin of that for some... It's their favorite meal." There is silence, this was information no hunter had. Rowena knew about the feeding habits of her previous subjects, but not her son. She had never thought to ask.

"And what was yers Fergus? What...are ye hungry for?" I shake my head. Rowena. Why would you ask a question with an obvious answer? He looks at her and sips his scotch.

"Why mother, I thought we had gotten to know one another. I'm surprised you don't know." She's silent. He sighs. "Everything mother, almost everything. Some of it is just trashy. I find I most enjoy anything that isn't simple. So, to that end, let's change the subject. What inspired you to risk your existence by breaking into my liquor cabinet?" I finally take a breath and am able to push away the memories now that we aren't talking about it as much.

"Bored, wanted to make you a new drink." He blinks, the others do as well. "My existence is defined by my ability to create, or at least enjoy what others create. I haven't been able to do that with my hands for decades. I missed it."

"You're insane." I look at Bobby as I pour the vodka into a tall glass, followed by the holy water. My hands are still shaky but I manage to not spill any. I push the memories of the intensity of those three days out of my head. It wasn't what he did, well it was partly that. Mainly it was that after hundreds of years being surrounded by dull experiences, to be suddenly encompassed in something that felt sensations with such intensity? I passed out, or whatever the soul equivalent is... And when I recovered I went into shock from what… what I awoke to.

I don't spill any but it almost overflows and I shake myself out of it again, feeling them watching me. I take a breath.

"Yeah. I'm an artist, comes with the territory. Taste this please, tell me if you like that ratio." Crowley is torn between annoyance and having a possible interesting experience. He takes the glass and decides to go with the latter. He could always torture me later. We all watch him sip, the holy water obviously causing him a bit of pain, but nothing he couldn't handle. The question is, did he like that amount of pain right now.

"It's fine." I nod and take the glass back. Crowley looks at my two other accomplices and licks his lips unconsciously. It's dry here, in this part of Hell. Hot dry heat. The drink he just sipped would have barely helped, already evaporated and drawn a bit of moisture from his lips. Or perhaps he was contemplating changing into something more comfortable… that would be bad for all of us. Crowley was not lying about the intensity of everything in his other form. I doubted he had eaten anything recently either. You didn't need to eat as a demon, that didn't mean you didn't get hungry, starving in that form.

"So, what were you discussing before I came in?"

"How you stormed heaven. And how I think that was the last time you could have been easily killed." I pour in half a jigger of blood and stir.

"You aren't wrong. Why would that matter?"

"Because I'm still going to try stop ya." Crowley smiles at Bobby.

"For old times sake or because you miss stabbing things?"

"Because what yer doin is wrong."

"Despite the fact that I only intend to use it to keep the world in one piece?"

"Yes! The cost is-"

"No greater than the lives that have been sent to Hell because the brothers hardy didn't close the gates. Not greater than the potential lives lost because Castiel couldn't keep his dinner down. No greater than the ones Amara ate to-"

"Yeah, but those souls still exist."

"The point is, Robert, that if this was needed to save the world, one of your gang would have done it instantly. What bothers you is that I'm doing it preemptively, and unlike you four, I enjoy doing it."

There is silence. Because Crowley is right. Bobby doesn't know how to respond so he just shoots the rest of the whiskey.

"If we're gonna get all moral talking philosophy and shit I need another drink."

"Me too dear."

"I haven't gotten mine yet."

"Well I need one more ingredient. Uhm, do you still have that emergency bit of my soul?" Silence.

"You're actually suggesting I drink your soul?"

"Well you keep fucking threatening to, so why not make it an event?"

"You are a really sick puppy."

"I've been told Bobby. So?"

Crowley laughs and snaps his fingers and the jar appears. He unscrews it and it immediately floats toward me.

"What part of me is that anyway?"

"I believe your love of tea and coffee."

"Huh. Ok. Well, break it up and put it in."

"What!?"

"What Bobby? He can put it back together."

"It's true."

"Yeah but it fucking hurts!"

"I've grown used to it." I pass the glass to Crowley and with a snap the bit of me that loves morning beverages falls into the glass like snow. The pain is small, like a thousand tiny needles just pushed against my skin for a second, but it's there. The glass sparkles now, like some cheap shimmering liquor, or even goldschlager. I chuckle as he shakes the contents a bit. The liquid is the slightest red, wisps of it floating through it despite the mixing, it looks like Crowley. I snort.

"It's called 'The Crowley.'"

"Well, it better live up to its name."

I pause.

"Wait. You...you gotta syringe still?" I grab the port/blood mixture as Crowley raises a brow but a syringe is produced from his pocket. I will think about why that was there later but for now I grab it and pull some of the mixture from the glass into the device that really shouldn't be used like this. At least it was partially blood.

Thank god the vodka is smooth. I take the syringe and plunge the long needle into the center and suck some of the vodka and water and then pull up and push all of it out. It is an odd effect, the different densities sinking and rising. The red blossoms and then when I stir it the streaks of color wisp and blur. I hand it back.

"Try it now. Work in progress remember." He looks at it.

"It's pretty. But looks aren't everything." He takes a sip,and I can see that he is trying very hard not to react physically. I grin.

"Not about the taste Crowley. The holy water hurts and the vodka makes it burn, the blood and the wine make it sweet, and a bit emotional. Art is about experience after all. So with the soul, you get the art and the artist.

"How...why would you do this? Create another thing for him to torment people with." Asks Bobby.

"One. It's my job. Two. I have at least thirty more ideas involving this, but they involve my soul, because that's the one I know how to use the best. So, it may keep him off others for a few decades. And I get to create shit."

"And you think I'll just let you dictate my leisure time?"

"You said it yourself, you don't wanna train someone new, it takes time." Bobby is giving me a look like I'm a sociopath. "Bobby, I have never treated my body well. I tried to take care of it, but my art always came first, even at the cost of my health. Why should it be any different now?"

"Because it's yer goddamn soul!" I laugh.

"No it's not. It's Crowleys."

"Wow, you've really drank the kool aid Bec."

"No. I dug my grave and now I'm making the coffin as livable as I can."

"I am getting quite bored of bein left out of this conversation." We glance at Rowena who has somehow managed to get the whiskey out from the cupboard without any of us noticing and is pouring herself another glass. "Robert?"

"Oh fuck yes. I ain't goin through any more of this shit sober."

"You realize that's mine." Crowley takes a sip of the drink I made as he watches the conversation with something bordering amusement.

"King a Hell or no, you'll haveta' pry this bottle outta my cold dead ghost hands."

"I could put you back on the rack."

"Not afore I drink this whiskey ya can't." And Bobby shoots back a small shot of the pappy van winkles and sucks air through his teeth. "Damn that's good."

"Didn't you have whatever you wanted to drink in heaven Bobby?" I ask as I try to settle against the cabinet.

"Yeah, but there's somethin' about knowing this was made by someone's hands that just makes it…"

"Better?" Crowley toasts the old hunter who scowls and turns his attention back to me.

"I still feel like there is something you ain't tellin us." I sigh, but I finally have an answer to that.

"You're totally right. It's stuff about my personal life. And you know what, I'll tell you if you tell me how many times you jerked off a day and what type of porn you watched, both of you." Bobby blinks. Rowena seems disinterested now that she know it's just someone not wanting to discuss their sex life. Most people didn't, so nothing new there. Point in fact...

"Gotcha. Ok. Crowley, what do you….No. wait a fuckin second. Was my goddamn soul in one of your fucking stomachs when you owned it?"

"Why Robert? Want to see your old home?"

"No! Gross!"

"Well you'll be happy to know that I just had its echo."

"It's...what?"

"Echo. It's how contracts work. It's a representation of your soul, an echo of it, that I get to keep until I have the real thing and choose where it goes. Otherwise humans would be those empty husks that go insane."

"Decide...Crowley. Where would you have put me?" Crowley sips and smiles and I shake my head. God Bobby is just as much a masochist as Crowley. Asking these questions.

"Darling Robert Singer. You would have gone to my second stomach so fast you would have had whiplash and I would have had heartburn." I sigh in tandem with Rowena and our gazes meet. I shake my head and she nods. Another stupid pissing contest where it would just end in awkwardness with two guys with their dicks out.

"Damn right I woulda hurt. So why ain't I there now?"

"I became King of Hell. I can move souls in contract or in Hell around at will, barring interference. I want you there, you're there. I like seeing you more. I don't really get to see those souls."

"Wait...why don't we see those souls in yer smoke? The contracts? The...anything?"

"It'd be quite heavy. Little pocket dimensions. I need to keep the others handy, to be moved around. And my fourth stomach is unique, it seems to encompass the entirety of my smoke. I'd always wondered why my smoke seemed to pack a bit more punch. I guess it was the stomach acid."

"Uh...where are all those souls you had in your second stomach now Crowley?" I ask quietly.

"I had them before Robert met Dragoness. So, they're here, somewhere in my reddish self. Nice play by the way Robert, you made it so I have to change your soul if I want a taste. I look forward to it in a millennia or so."

"You sick sonuva-"

"Witch. Yes. I know. I'm joking. I won't do that to you unless you force my hand."

"What, off your cock from your fun time during your self gratifyin' speeches?"

"Oof. Robert. I believe Hell is rubbing off on you. That was almost a good insult. No. You force my hand by doing something Winchester-y. So. Now that we're done, yet again, discussing my physical anatomy…?" Silence reigns as we try to move into more benign topics. We fail.

"Robert, what were you going to ask when you interrupted yourself?" Crowely rolls his eyes and pushes the conversation away from what He considers boring, or perhaps dangerous, information.

"Oh. Uh. What you like readin?" I snort a bit at the 180 but manage to hide it by sipping my drink.

"Fiction and fictional history. It's amusing to see mortals who don't know about this world speculate on how it works." I take a sip and ponder something. Crowley had played a lot of parts in his role as an actor, I wonder if he had concerns about where humans might head.

"What are all of you gonna do once humans get to long distance space travel?" They all look at me as I sip the port again. "What? We aren't exactly aging here and it's gonna happen eventually."

"I don't see why it's a problem darlin?" I look at Rowena.

"Not exactly crossroads in space."

"Depends how big the ship is. And distance does not matter in relation to this magic. You want to make a deal, we go halfway across the universe." I chuckle. Of course Crowley would have thought about this.

"Yeah, but there isn't any dirt to bury the box."

"Beneath floor panels would do fine."

"What about other life forms...other souls? Other demons or other Hells?"

"If there are other branches, they haven't exactly sent an 'E.T. phone home' message." Oof, that was telling and I did not want to think about that.

"Ok. Done with that line of questioning."

"What? Why? It was jest gettin' interesting darlin."

"Rowena, I am not explaining the Fermi Paradox to you. It's too complicated and I can't wrap my head around that and demons and what those might mean in relation to each other ok? The ramifications of a type V civilization-"

"A what?" She asks. Crowley looks amused.

"No. No, I am stopping there. You want to get started on questions like that? Read The Last Question by Isaac Asimov. Then look up the Fermi Paradox and talk to me when your brain starts to melt and existential dread sets in."

"It's a good story." I look at Bobby. "Hey, I can read the classics."

"Fair."

"Darlin, I Met God, existential dread isn't-"

Rowena, trust me. It doesn't matter in this case. The fact that there is a god, just makes this story hurt your brain more. Especially if you're scientifically minded. You want to go into this stuff, I have to tell you about things like the double slit experiment and the inability of physics to have one set of rules for the macro and micro universes."

"What? Darlin, you're speaking in gibberish."

"No, I'm not, and that's why it's terrifying. None of the answers answer the problem of entropy. Because if all that stuff is just as it is with no explanation, then God is lazy, or has already decided the ending to the story. If the explanation is 'it's magic' then that sets up a whole other set of problems."

"Why?"

"Because, and I quote, "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.'" Rowena stares.

"No it ain't." I look at Bobby and then Crowley, and smile.

"Oh boy."

"Oh yeah Bobby. Let's continue this perisan debate."

"A what darlin'?"

"Yeah, what?" Echoes Bobby. Crowley just sips his drink at the other's confusion. He knows exactly what that is, he has been with me long enough to have heard me think about it.

"The Persians had a process. They discussed an idea sober, then they discussed it drunk. If they came to the same conclusion both times, the idea was sound. So, discuss. My first point. I bring an iPhone back to you, Rowena, before let's say 1730, what would your response be?"

"She would have tried to suck up and see what sort of witch you were."

"Fergus, I would not!"

"You totally would have, and that's the point, you would have thought I was a witch."

"Yes, but once I had broken that wee bit of plastic apart, I would have seen there wasn't a single incantation on the thing."

"Yeah, but you woulda thought it was magic for a moment. That's the point."

"Right Bobby."

"No, it nay is! The point would be that it's now distinguishable! I would hae figured it out!"

"Woah, Rowena, calm, your accent is showing. It's a discussion, not a fight. We probably won't come to an answer."

"Oh no, this be a fight now. There is a feel to magic, one that no Technology can replicate. A pressure, a buildin' of energy."

"Ok, what about lasers? Or railguns. I can't imagine energy wouldn't be tangible around those."

"What? A What?" I sigh. Oh boy. Talking about this stuff to someone who hadn't really seen scifi. I look to Crowley. He sits, sipping his drink, watching us squabble like ants. I wonder if he had ever really participated in a discussion like this for fun. As himself, not in his persona. Perhaps that is why he isn't now. He didn't know how, or felt it was beneath him.

But it wasn't beneath his persona. The one that was a bit more than 'just' a persona. Human Crowley. Crowley sans hell. Sans true evil. Sans Fergus' trauma. He had said once it was basically 'Crowley lite'.

"Crowley, c'mon. I need your persona and you for a moment. Mark Sheppard, the actor who read speculative fiction and not only played roles in scifi and fantasy, but in between, While being a demon and an actual son of a witch. You're the most knowledgeable about this. What do you think?"

"I think it's a pointless discussion."

"Yes, it is. And isn't. There is no 'point' to philosophy other than a hope to gain a better understanding of things."

"A goal that is usually never reached."

"True, but we have four experts here. A witch, a hunter, a demon and actor, and an artist who imbibed in way too much media while she was alive. The possibility of actually coming to a conclusion is exciting. Besides, we get to yell at each other and drink, which is half the fun. I could needle at you, try and trick you into joining, but we'd both see the ploys easily. Just join us. You probably have the most actual experience of both worlds here, I just have knowledge but I've never practiced magic. So, do you think the feeling magic creates can be replicated?"

"I think we have an Isaac Asimov answer here. 'There is as yet insufficient data for a meaningful answer.'" Rowena stares. "It's a quote from the book."

"My son is a nerd…."

"No, your son spent a bit of time actually exploring the world while you slutted around trying to gain more power. The more you know, the more you can do, the more fun you can have. Knowledge, is power."

"Woo. G.I. Joe." I sing. Rowena looks flabbergasted and confused. Bobby just takes another sip.

"Wasn't that before your time Bec?"

"Yeah, the quote never died though Bobby. Crowley, can you just...impart pop culture knowledge into her brain?"

"Yes, but-"

"Nay, you'll not be filling my head with that rubbish!" Crowley gestures to his mother.

"And since when do you listen to anyone?" Asks Bobby. Crowley pauses.

"True." And leans over to his mother and taps her forehead.

"Ow! Oh…. That's quite a lot… That's quite a lot of rubbish."

"Oh yeah, a lot of pop culture is pretty shit."

"What in God's name is a Snookie?"

"No! Don't go down that road! Look away from the daytime TV Rowena! Just… just let's continue the discussion and let the answers come."

"Trust me, ya don' wanna go down that road Rowena." We all stare at Bobby. "What! I was at a low point in my life ok!?"

"Ok, glossing over Bobby's love for Stepford Housewives-"

"Hey!" I chuckle at Bobby's protest to Crowley's comment.

"Glossing over that. Mother, what do you think now that you know what a… say a nanite is?"

"A wha- Oh. Ew. Oh. That's...that's one way of changing how ye look. …" She pauses for a second, then a moment. Then a minute. Going over the decades worth of science fiction knowledge she now had. "I… I can't believe I'm sayin this but I have to agree with Fergus. Until we have somethin to compare-" I throw up my hands.

"Oh my god. You want empirical evidence! That isn't the point of the debate! Rowena, do you ever think technology could be indistinguishable from magic?"

"To a magic user; at first glance aye, but upon scrutinizin, nay." I hold my head in my hands.

"Uuuugh. I agree. So much for a debate."

"Oh no. We still have a debate." We all look at Crowley. 'What should I do to you for breaking into my liquor cabinet?" I swallow and take a sip of port. "Opening statements?"

Fuck.