Dear Readers: Please enjoy the next chapter.
Bad Penny Green
Day 0
Rowena was the first to arrive.
As the great hall's double doors whisked opened, the witch moved across the threshold with the silent grace of satin drapery stirred by a breeze. Her posture was impeccable, her face the picture of arcane haughtiness.
As always, Crowley found everything about his mother to be violently irritating.
A big Slavic brute with a shaved head followed Rowena into the hall, carrying an overstuffed, gold-gilt settee in his blunt, dinner plate hands. The piece was vaguely baroque and explicitly hideous, and Crowley hated it. Which is why, of course, his mother had requested that particular bit of furniture in the first place. He sighed as Rowena settled daintily upon her settee, stewing at the smirk that played around the corners of her mouth.
"And how are you, mother dearest?" he drawled, "Feeling comfortable?"
Rowena flashed a brilliant smile, flipped her hair and responded in kind.
"Why, I'm rested and well, thank you, son!" she said, "You're such a good boy for asking."
Crowley smiled tightly. "Not at all."
"To what do I owe the pleasure of the King's call?" Rowena asked.
Crowley opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted as the hall's enormous doors burst open once more. The demon King nodded towards the two prisoners—one hunter, one angel—that were being hauled towards his throne.
"You're insurance," Crowley told the witch. He eyed one of his two captives with particular caution. "I don't trust that spellwork of yours to quash Winchester's power for even half as long as you said it would."
Rowena sat back, indignant.
"Well," she huffed, "'trust' aside, my arcane abilities are a matter of personal pride. I'd never exaggerate my competence."
Crowley rolled his eyes.
"This isn't about you overestimating your own abilities, mother," he hissed, "this is about you potentially underestimating his."
He lifted a finger from his armrest to point towards the half-dozen guards who were struggling to restrain a bucking and furious Dean Winchester. The hunter was shackled hand-and-foot and had duct tape plastered across his mouth, but somehow he still managed to keep landing violent blows against his captors. At times, it seemed his goal was to fight his way through his guards and tear apart the demons holding Castiel; at others, it seemed he was just out to do as much damage as possible.
Rowena was forced to shrug her shoulders in acknowledgment.
"He is a tad bit feisty, isn't he?" she mused.
Crowley scoffed.
"Woman, you've been spared the majority of the decade I've spent dealing with the Winchester brothers and their pet angel. Believe me, you don't know the half of it."
He turned to his guards.
"You cowards had best quit lollygagging and get those two secure before I decide to let my hound here turn you into Alpo."
The hellhound at Crowley's feet twitched an ear and opened one eye, letting out a cavernous rumble deep in its chest.
The guards looked up at their king with panicked expression, their eyes flashing black with fear. Gulping collectively, they redoubled their efforts, beating down the berserk hunter until they were able to anchor his chains to an iron grate in the floor. Castiel was decidedly less of a chore for them. Either refusing to struggle or simply unable to, the angel allowed the demons to force him onto his knees and bolt his chains into the same grate holding Dean in place.
Crowley pointed to Dean.
"Take his muzzle off," he ordered.
One demon tangled his fingers into the hunter's hair while another one tore the tape from his mouth. Dean took a brief moment to work the stiffness out of jaw before lunging to the side and trying to sink his teeth into the guard closest to him.
"That's enough," Crowley called. He snapped his fingers.
With oily relief in their black eyes, the narrow-faced demons clinging to Dean broke apart like a clot of rats and scurried off into the shadows. Freed from their weight, the hunter reared back and thrashed in his warded irons, his eyes shifting and dark. Blood ran down into his hands as the bindings cut his skin.
With his elbow propped up on the armrest of his throne, Crowley pressed his fingers into his temple and sighed.
"Squirm all you like, mate. I'll just wait here until you tire yourself out. I've got all the time in the world."
Dean bucked at his chains a few more times before he cried out in frustration and collapsed forward over his knees, panting heavily. He said nothing, just bled slowly from his wrists and the cut above his eye where one of Crowley's guards had socked him and broken the skin.
Beside him, Castiel let out a damp cough, which Dean ignored.
"What'd you drag us up here for, Crowley, huh?" the hunter snarled, "You gonna to feed us to your pet?"
The demon King let out a rare laugh.
"Now there's an idea," he chuckled, "That'd be a bit poetic, wouldn't it? A full circle sort of thing. Oi, did you hear him, Dahmer? Ay. Dahmer! Wakey wakey, you lazy throw rug!"
Crowley nudged his hellhound's rump with the toe of his polished oxford. The beast stirred, its red eyes blinking open. With a chuff, it lifted its wide, wolfish head from its forepaws to turn and look up at its master. Crowley reached his hand into a jar beside his throne and withdrew a fleshy organ of unknown provenance. He tossed it at his pet, the animal catching it deftly, tail thumping against the dais as it swallowed the offal without chewing.
"Good puppy," Crowley cooed. He leaned down to pat the hound's muscled flanks. The dog rumbled contentedly.
"Now," the king said, sitting back to study his prisoners, "You do beg an interesting question, Mr. Winchester. Whatever shall I do with you two? The possibilities do test the limits of one's imagination."
Dean jerked his head in Castiel's direction.
"Well, you won't be doing anything with him unless you get him some help. He can't heal with that bullet that's still in him. He's dying."
Crowley considered the hunter carefully.
"You don't seem terribly concerned about that," he said slowly.
Dean spit some blood onto the floor and sneered, shooting the angel a side-long glare.
"I tend to be less sympathetic when pissed," he growled.
Rowena made a small sound from beside the throne and leaned forward. Crowley turned to her.
"What is it?" he demanded.
The witch nodded towards Dean.
"Hold out your arm," she ordered the hunter, "the one with the mark."
"Make me," Dean snapped.
Rowena looked at Crowley. Crowley nodded to her and shifted his gaze towards Castiel. He narrowed his eyes. Instantly, the angel seized on a gasp of pain, his skin alive with burning sigils. Too exhausted to scream, he collapsed on his side fell into a bout of bloody coughing, moaning through clenched teeth when he had the breath.
Dean's jaw pulsed as he ground his teeth. He refused to look at Castiel, but his face twitched each time the angel let out a groan. Crowley stared him down, waiting. At last, the hunter caved.
"Fine," Dean spat, and held out his blade arm as far as his chains would allow. Crowley blinked and released Castiel, joining Rowena in the examination of her seal. One of the runes encircling the Mark of Cain was giving off a green, sputtering glow.
As they watched, it fizzled off Dean's skin and disappeared.
The witch sat back, chewing her lip.
"Well, you weren't wrong," she admitted, "my seal isn't holding up nearly as well as I'd hoped. His fury is burning the runes right off."
"Alright, then, how do we stop it?" Crowley asked.
Rowena tapped a pale finger against her lips.
"Hm. Well, the best solution is stop making him so angry, but I don't know how plausible that is."
"Fat chance," Dean barked.
Crowley glared at him, "Hush."
"A suggestion, if I may, you're Highness," Rowena interjected, "If the purpose of all this is to drag out then length of time you have to exact revenge against these boys, then it might be prudent to let me tend to the angel's wounds so he doesn't expire before you've had a chance to have your fun. You could toss Winchester into the dungeon in the meantime, let him cool his head for a spell. It might even help slow the weakening of that seal."
Crowley sat back and raised an eyebrow, considering his mother's recommendation. He looked closely at Castiel, who was laying barely conscious on the floor, before letting his eyes slide over to Dean. The demon King's gaze worried around the mark on the hunter's arm.
"Fine," he conceded at last, "Get the angel well enough that torturing him isn't a complete disappointment. I'll have my guards throw Dean in with Bundy. That ought to keep him occupied."
Rowena nodded graciously and turned to her big, bald attendant, ordering him quietly to have Castiel brought to her chambers. The hulking demon bowed and went to unchain the angel, throwing Castiel's limp form over his shoulder.
Dean sat staring at Crowley. He wrinkled his nose as the demon king summoned guards to drag him away.
"Who the hell is Bundy?" the hunter demanded.
Crowley just smiled.
Dean bucked and kicked and gnashed his teeth as his guards hauled him bodily down the hallway. He strung together every foul word he knew and cursed so violently that even one of the demons finally took offense and smacked him across the mouth. Dean didn't care. He was pissed, his rage potent and omnidirectional. He hated everyone, from his dead dad to the Devil himself, but with the chains and the demons holding him back, he couldn't manage to land a satisfying punch.
It was beyond frustrating.
Eventually, despite his best efforts to make himself the underworld's biggest pain in the ass, Dean's captors succeeded in bringing to the edge of large metal grate set into the floor.
"What is this, your Rancor Pit?" Dean snarked.
The demons snorted and grinned nastily. They didn't answer his question.
Pulling a lever, the guards drew back the metal grate and kicked Dean unceremoniously down into the dark hole beneath it. Dean sucked in a breath as he was hit by sick sensation of falling. He tumbled rapidly down a steep stone chute for several seconds before plowing to an ungraceful stop against a hard-packed dirt floor. The dust that rose from his impact stank of shit and blood.
The clang of the grate being dropped back into place echoed down into the antechamber as Dean got to his feet. He looked up. Over his head, a massive set of bars caged in the entire pit. Beyond them, he could make out long stone benches that stacked in an arch away from the pit's edge. Bowls of orange fire burned along the walls, and clusters of black-eyed demons muttered and stirred where they sat. Dean saw money and chits of paper changing hands, then caught the prating sound of a bookie taking overs and unders on a fight.
His fight, the hunter realized.
He'd been dumped into a ring.
From the far side of the enclosure, a black mass shifted, rumbled, and rose heavily to its feet.
Dean clenched his jaw.
"Oh, so I was right!" he hollered out, "This is your fucking Rancor Pit!"
The creature in the shadow shuffled and growled.
Dean took a step back. He watched as, with a shake of his loose black pelt, "Bundy" emerged from the shadows and stepped into the hot firelight.
"Huh," the hunter bit out, "So Dahmer has a big brother. Got it."
Bundy was, by far, the biggest hellhound Dean had ever seen. The hunter swallowed in spite of himself. Dropping into a crouch, he kept his back to the wall as he and Bundy began to slowly circle one another.
"Boy," Dean breathed, "you sure are one ugly sumbitch, you know that?"
In reply, the hellhound's black, ropey lips peeled back off his teeth, gathering in damp knots above his canines. Staring at Dean, he made a guttural sound deep in his barrel chest, his mouth bleeding spittle onto the floor. The wet slap of dripping saliva echoed through the antechamber.
Dean glared at the animal in its glowing red eyes, his mouth twisting hard on a snarl of his own. A searing flash of primal fury lanced through him.
"Just try it, Fido," he growled, "I'll force-feed you your own tail."
A chorus of excited chatter boiled up from the demons spectating outside the cage.
The hellhound opened his long jaws and snapped at the air. Dean caught of whiff of his breath. It stank the way old pennies tasted, all grime and copper. The hunter dragged his nose across his shoulder to wipe away the scent. A tingle of excitement zipped along his scalp. A smile surprised him by hooking into his lip.
He needed this, he realized. He was itching for a fight. His rage had been building for hours and hours with nowhere to go.
Now he had Bundy. He looked the snarling hellhound in the eye.
"Have it your way, lobo," he said. He grabbed the chain the hung from his wrists and pulled it tight between both hands.
"Let's dance."
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~DWC