Sam muttered angrily to himself as he felt Crowley's telekinesis grip him again, scowling as it compelled him to stand.
"Look! Back off, OK?" Sam snapped, scowling.
"Oh, touché, Moose. Touche. Really, though, why would I let you go even in the slightest? No, I don't think so. I'm in charge. And you're—" With a quirk of his eyebrow, Crowley forced Sam to raise his arm from his side "-Doing—" Now Sam's arm was forced back behind him "—Whatever—" His elbow was bending now " I want."
With that pronouncement, Crowley forced Sam's hand into an unnatural angle, the small bones and ligaments in his wrist exploding with pain which left him gasping, stumbling as he struggled forward instinctively as to escape, falling as Crowley neglected to intervene.
The grip on his wrist released, allowing his reflexes to snap his arms out In front of him, only instants too late, he realized, a mistake. He shook as his injured hand contacted the ground.
"So, Moose. Let's try this again. But be a good little idiot, that is assuming you're intelligent enough to understand my orders. I have plans in addition to merely enjoying tormenting you, which I'd like to get on with."
"Go to hell," Sam muttered through gritted teeth as he righted himself.
"Oh, wait, what's this, dumbass? I already own the place."
With a thrust of his hand, he forced Sam to follow him up the corridor, the metal flooring clicking underfoot in the unnatural silence of the time machine. They made their way out into the console room, where Sam tried to pause, earning only a disgruntled 'tsk' from Crowley, who pressed harder against him, making him comply with the unspoken demand to move along.
He was propelled ahead of Crowley out the front door of the Tardis, which slammed shut behind them, the sound echoing emptily in what Sam could see was a bare, old room. They were in some old-fashioned abandoned house, from the looks of it…
"How the hell—" Sam began.
"What, you think I don't have plenty of servants running about to do something so simple as transport a glorified phone box?" Crowley scoffed. "But less mouth, more moving—" he gave him a telekinetic shove toward some stairs, which he scrambled down to keep from falling again.
"Where are you taking me?" He demanded as he descended ahead of Crowley into the darkness of what seemed to be a cellar.
"You'll see soon enough," Crowley said as he paused to throw a switch, which flooded the room at the bottom of the stairs with the flickering light of a utility bulb.
Sam squinted as his eyes adjusted. It was indeed a cellar, concrete floors, stone walls, windowless, with—some surprise, Sam thought bitterly—was set up as a dungeon.
"Crap. Just-" Sam muttered, breaking off when he heard someone else speak.
"So," a voice called, its owner moving from the shadow at the edge of the room. "You wanted to meet up in here, now tell me what all this is about."
Sam stared as his brother came to stand in the center of the room, his features looking unnaturally harsh in the flickering light of the utility bulb. Dean gave no sign of recognition, no flicker of acknowledgment, good or bad. He just looked past him, up the stairs at Crowley, who he regarded in an alarmingly casual manner.
"You see, Squirrel, I brought you a present," Crowley deadpanned from where he was midway up the staircase as he forced Sam against the wall. who had finished his descent, to to finish his descent, o stand beside him at the bottom of the stairs.
"Really, with the nicknames still? What did I say, about that, huh?" Dean prodded, completely ignoring Sam as he spoke to the elder demon.
"In case you've forgotten," Crowley sniped. "I am the King. And as King, I will call you whatever I bloody well please."
"Really?" Dean scoffed. "I mean, you called, and I came, might I mention I left karaoke hour to come, so what the hell is this about? And I'd like a straight answer before I start getting really pissed off. Y'know, since it might not exactly be in your interest for that to happen and all." He subtly moved his jacket tail to reveal the handle of the First Blade protruding from his pocket.
"Yes, yes, it's simple, really. We're here to have a long overdue good time," Crowley responded.
"Normally, I'd be down with that. Bring the whiskey, I can party anytime. But if that was really your plan, why would you've brought him?" Dean replied, gesturing toward Sam, who made a noise in his throat, choking back the emotion that made him shake in the demon's grasp.
"God, Dean, it's me!" He blurted, breaking off in a groan as Crowley jerked his already injured arm.
"Less mouth Moose, if you please," Crowley scolded. "The sound of your voice just ruins the delightful atmosphere we have here."
"Whatever you say, Lucky," Dean jibed, earning a scathing look from Crowley.
"Alright, enough mucking about. We ought to get down to the fun of it," Crowley said, shaking his head. "You, forwards."
He gave Sam a telekinetic shove, sending him forward across the room to the far wall, where sets of rusted-looking shackles hung, bolted to the stone walls.
As he came to a stop mere inches away, he realized with a rising panic that the red-brown substance on them wasn't rust; it was in some spots, still liquid, still dripping.
"Still don't see how this is supposed to be enjoyable," Dean said, leaning jauntily against the wall as he settled back to watch whatever was going to transpire.
"Oh, relax. We'll get through the fun of this, and then I'll break out the Craig," Crowley said. "Rest assured, it is a thing to drink to."
He smiled darkly as he used his powers to pin Sam to the wall so hard that the rough stones dug into his back, forcing the air out of his lungs.
He gasped, breathless, as Crowley snapped first one shackle, then another shut around his wrists.
"I don't know what you think you're going to do," he choked out as the pressure on his ribs relented, "But you're not going to—"
"I have to agree with him on this one," Dean spoke up, cutting him off. "I mean, if you're that bored, need to get your fix for torturing or whatever, let's find a few more of Abbadon's mooks. I don't mind, it's practically sport."
"No, I assure you, this has nothing to do with any supposed addictions on my part. I do have something in store, though, if you'd give me a bloody chance to explain!" Crowley snapped back, face reddening somewhat as he glared at Dean.
"Now, if you'll just allow me to begin our little party," he growled menacingly, raising a hand in front of himself, he clenched his fingers, claw-like, which triggered a grinding in the shackles.
A pinching, tearing at his wrists startled Sam. He bit back a scream as sharpness cut slowly deeper and deeper, like hot irons burrowing their way into his bones.
"So, Moose, do you see? Whatever you were going on about earlier is pointless. I am in charge here."
Crowley drew an angel blade from a sheath on the wall, slowly turning it over in his hands as he walked toward Sam, pointing it at his chest.
"I still don't know what you want, Crowley," Sam spat the words, voice shaking.
"I want? What I want—" He reared back his arm with the sword, swinging it toward Sam's face only to stop it an instant before it hit. "Is a perfect Hell. Me and your bother can create it. Except there's just one thing to deal with first. "
Crowley gestured with the sword as he spoke, looking thoughtful before lowering it again, a malicious look in his eyes as he gestured with an upturned hand, the shackles now glowing red-hot.
He waited for Sam's cries to die down before speaking. "Now, really, I could do this all day, but there's more pressing matters at hand—"
"Dean, please, please don't let him do this," Sam choked out as he caught his breath. "Just—just let me go-come with me! We can work through this, like—like—"
"Seriously? What makes you think I'd want to 'work through this?'" Dean began, nose wrinkling as he waited through his brother's moaning as Crowley again tightened the shackles before continuing, "Have you even stopped to think, that oh, I don't know, maybe I like this? Maybe I don't want to go back to being weak, mortal, human me?"
"Dean! No, no, Dean! Make him stop-" Sam's voice rose to a scream as Dean turned away, and Crowley, with a tilt of his head, tightened the bands of the shackles so that they cut deeper into his wrists.
"Emotion, pain. You know, it's incredible you morons have made it this long, Moose. So many weak spots. So many vulnerabilities. Look at you now. Your own brother is finally proving himself to be the stronger of the two of you. You were Azazel's chosen, but Squirrel, Michael's sword, wielding the power of the Mark, well, look who's the better of you now." He laughed.
Dean grunted at this, rolling his eyes in annoyance. Between gasps for breath, Sam felt an awful emptiness growing inside him, so large it was quelling, the desire to scream, to fight…
"Crowley—" Dean began, but was interrupted by the other demon.
"Sam, don't you just wish it was over now? Hell's won, and you're of no use to me, or him, at any rate. Oh, and, Dean, what more perfect way to seal the bargain, to right the numerous ways you've tried to sleight demon,
"Now you just wait a goddamn minute," Dean reacted to this, cutting Crowley off as he stepped between the King of Hell and his brother.
"But—" Crowley protested.
"No! You, just shut up for a freaking minute! I don't know what you think you're getting at, but—"
As Dean spoke, the doors burst open. Both demons whirled, Dean hefting the blade, an expression of shock twisting his features as a searing light burnt into the room. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away as far as he could.
Bang. Bang.