Better Be Home Soon
Chapter 3
After hours of uncomfortable broken rest Juliet skulked out of Papa's fine office, out into the dilapidated hallway and vomited up the cupcake which had so offended her digestion. Papa liked his Persian rug, and she would already be the dogbox for disobedience, without invoking his ire by soiling his expensive furnishings.
Almost immediately she started to feel better.
Shaking out her coat of roiling flame Juliet sniffed at the regurgitated mess in disgust. Papa had always said human food was no good for hounds, that it weakened the body and muddied the mind. Now she understood what he had meant.
With the disgusting confection gone from her system. Juliet realised she hadn't been thinking at all clearly. From the moment she snapped up that treat from the cooling rack in the house with the oven baked corpse, her mind had been full of muddy, useless thoughts, just as Papa warned.
The Winchester brothers had been chasing Papa. Papa had come to earth because of the Winchester brothers. If she couldn't find Papa's subtle trail, she most definitely could backtrack and chase down the Gunoil-Leather-Cheap-Denim-and-Flannel stink the Winchester hunters left behind. Eventually, Papa's course and that of the Hunters Winchester would converge.
Now her head was clear and her gut under control Juliet remembered that Papa had chosen her first and foremost for her intelligence and renewed her old vow to prove him right.
…ooo0ooo…
Crowley sat at the bar and waited, smiling to himself with eager anticipation.
Toying with the Winchesters had been loads of fun. Humans were extremely predictable in their schedules and responses. Which had made setting up the deaths of Tommy Collins and Jenny Klein a complete lark. An excursion into the woods, face down in the oven, such amusing little call-backs to deaths the Winchesters had thwarted years ago. He had read all about those cases in Carver Edlund's trashy books, had read all the online discourse from the book's fans. It'd all been a rare treat, to get away from the tedium of ruling and simply let loose for a while.
Then there'd been Sarah Blake. One of the few females young Sammy Winchester had sparked chemistry with. One of the rare few who managed to survive, and pursue a normal, happy life afterward.
It'd been the wrong time for romance to bloom, readers of the Supernatural books agreed, (out of respect for sweet innocent Jessica;) but they had all so hoped to see Sarah Blake again, later in the series. And who was Crowley not to oblige the fans. He was all about customer satisfaction, now, wasn't he?
Sitting there at the bar, Crowley imagined the expressions of manly panic which would have overtaken the Winchesters as they searched room 116. After realising, far too late, that the cunning King of Hell was using witchcraft to kill their saves.
The sounds from the telephone as the two hunters had floundering about searching for the offending hex bag, and Sammy Winchester's cries of panicked dismay, really had been just … chef's kiss.
Dean had tossed the phone across the room at the end. His temper getting the best of him, as Crowley had known it would. The last thing he'd heard was the clatter of it hitting the wall.
With lingering satisfaction, he imagined the surprise on their faces when they discovered that hex bag he'd hidden inside the telephone. The very last place they'd ever think of looking.
The thought of his own complete brilliance took Crowley's breath away; like his hex bag had done with Sarah Blake.
For a moment he pictured how the whole game would have appeared on the page, in one of Carver Edlund's books.
Him: the dashingly evil mastermind, (whom readers wouldn't be able to help adoring for his class and unsurpassed intelligence) taunting the heroes with his wit and brilliance.
And the Winchesters: filled with heroic rage and angst as they confronted each of the pre-prepared bodies, slowly coming to the realisation of what a formidable opponent they had riled up with their stupid plot to shut the gates of hell…
It was a pity really, that the author, and previous prophet, Chuck Shurley (Carver Edlund's true identity) was dead now and would write no more books, to record Crowley's greatness in pulp fiction text. A great pity he'd been replaced by that deceptive, slanty eyed traitor, Kevin Tran.
Now, the Winchesters couldn't help but understand his seriousness or the consequences of their continued attempts to close the gates of hell, and soon it would be time for the pièce de résistance.
As fate would have it, after years grieving the loss of her son, then husband, and son again; a certain Sioux Falls sheriff had decided to take her love life by the horns and voyage into the many splendored arena of online dating.
For the past week Crowley had been catfishing the lovely, and amusingly inexperienced, sheriff Jody Mills.
Being back in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, was proving nostalgic for him. Remembering those exciting times, they'd all shared. Him, the Winchesters, and the delightfully salty Bobby Singer, all conspiring against the devil to stop an apocalypse together.
Those had been simpler times. They'd all had a passably professional, competitive relationship going on, until this whole closing the gates of Hell fiasco.
Yes, sure, he'd paid a reaper to scoop Bobby Singer up and deliver him to Hell after that arrogant tub of guts Leviathan, Dick-Bloody-Roman, splattered the red necked codgers' erudite brains with a bullet. But the man had made a deal! He would have gone down like a well-trained choir boy for the location of Death's ring. Bobby Singer should have been Hell's rightful property… if it hadn't been for the bloody Winchesters finding Fergus MacLeod's bones and using them to force him to cancel Singer's deal. (Justly so, considering how Robert had failed to catch that blazing bloody obvious loophole in his contract.)
They'd cheated first. Crowley had just redressed the swindle.
He'd helped Singer, given him back the use of his legs. He'd even gone out of his way to spare Bobby Singer from the racks and the messy business of torture. Treated the man more than fairly, left him alone for the most part, only sending his droogs in to ask for a little information.
But no, none of that was enough for the Winchesters, they'd had to go break into his kingdom and steal the man back. They'd had to go and murder his hound— and for what?
To try and bugger up the mechanics of the universe by shutting and locking the gates of Hell.
No! Just no!
Sam and Dean Winchester might have been useful in the past, but they'd gotten far too big for their worn-out, bargain basement clodhoppers of late; what they needed was a whack with the proverbial rolled up Newspaper. Preferably one wrapped around a stout length of four-by-two.
Ahhh and speaking of whacking things— Sheriff Mills had arrived, looking truly lovely. She'd put in some real effort.
Crowley smiled and waved a hand at the bar keep.
"The lovely lady in the cyan dress, I'd like to buy her a drink. What do you suggest?"
The man followed his gaze, and an amused smile curved his lips.
"That lovely lady, is our very own sheriff Mills, and gosh doesn't she look fine tonight? But I don't think it would be the best idea to go hitting on her, if you know what I mean. She's obviously already meeting someone."
Crowley raised an eyebrow and straightened his tie with an affable smile.
"Let me reassure you, friend. That lucky someone is, in fact, myself. Blind dates are a Hell of a thing, and I'm just dying to make a lasting first impression."
The barkeep gave him the once over and smirked.
"Well, in that case I'd suggest a cosmopolitan for the lady. Jody drinks them on special occasions."
"Perfect! Keep the change" Crowley slid a hundred-dollar bill across the bar to the man and caught his eyes widen in appreciation. Watched lazily as the man mixed the drink.
The barkeep waved to a plump blonde girl in waitstaff black and white; and there was a short, hushed conversation. Sideways glances and a delighted little giggle came from the girl, who was apparently named Nancy. Before the drink made its way over to the delightful Ms. Mills.
Crowley waited a moment then followed.
"On the house, Sheriff," waitstaff Nancy beamed, almost bouncing on her toes with delight.
"Oh, thanks Nance but I didn't order t—"
Crowley slid into the seat opposite Jody and was delighted to see waitstaff Nancy grin impishly and mouth, 'good luck,' before fleeing back to her station.
"So, what are we drinking?"
Off balance, Ms. Mills looked across at him.
"Roderick?" She asked in shock. As though she'd expected him to stand her up or run for the hills upon seeing her.
"Wow, Jody, words cannot begin to describe the injustice that that picture does to you." He smiled appreciatively, and Jody dropped her eyes in flattered embarrassment. She then looked back up and shot him a wide and appreciative smile of her own.
Crowley wined and dined the lovely sheriff Mills. He played the perfect gentleman, all the while continuing the charade of being a wealthy and successful lawyer in search of love.
He slipped a hex bag into her purse as she laughed at his witty anecdotes, and flirted just enough, but not too much.
Finally, when the time was right, and the conversation opened the way over dessert; he started his attack, responding to her fatuous comment about how she was just a small-town girl, while he was a fancy lawyer. Which was a rather transparent sortie, asking if they had enough in common to form a relationship.
"We do share something, you and I," he said by way of response.
"What?" She asked. Smiling at him questioningly.
"Loss."
Her smile faded as her mind turned to that loss. Losing her little boy, only to have him returned by Lucifer's schemes, then to have him devolve into a revenant, which attacked, killed and ate her husband.
Sam Winchester had saved Ms. Mills and put down her zombified son— which was why Crowley was there.
"My son and my husband," she said carefully. Because your reanimated son devouring your beloved husband is rarely considered polite dinner conversation, or first date material.
"How did you know?"
He reached his right hand across and placed it over hers where they lay clasped together on the table and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. Looked deep into her eyes with a false, but extremely well manufactured, expression of deep empathy.
"I've lost someone, too." He said and watched her eyes fill with tears.
Embarrassed by the emotion, Jody drew one of her hands back and faked a laugh.
"It's not a date till I've cried." She muttered trying for humour, as she wiped surreptitiously at her eyes.
"So, now, you've cried." He responded simply, gallantly. Gave the hand he still held another gentle squeeze, and levelled another perfectly manufactured, look of empathy her way.
When she laid her own hand back down atop his, he knew she'd fallen for it all, brilliantly. He had her; hook, line and sinker.
When Jody excused herself to go to the ladies-room not long after, Crowley was ready.
Unwrapping his supplies and laying them out, he placed the already lit candle, that so many restaurants considered a romantic touch, down on top of his makeshift altar.
He took out the picture Jody, which she had so thoughtfully provided him during their online encounters, (he had it already marked with a blood sigil,) and leaned it against the base of the candle.
No one was paying him the slightest bit of attention as he spoke the spell out loud.
"Manu mortis accesso spiritus vitae recedit."
Right on cue his phone began ringing.
Dean.
"You have less than one minute before a very dear, attractive, and slightly tipsy friend of yours snuffs it." Crowley advised the Winchester thorn in his side by way of greeting.