Chapter 9
As she prepared for breakfast (since she didn't think it was wise to defy the King of Hell), Claire pondered why Crowley had taken an interest in her.
Perhaps it had something to do with her relationship to Castiel and the Winchesters.
Or perhaps it had more to do that he showed interest before. She didn't recognize him at the bar—because he had possessed someone at the time, obviously.
Claire had finished tying her hair back when the door opened.
"You were supposed to wear the dress," the demon woman snapped.
"I don't do dresses," Claire said, crossing her arms. "They're cumbersome." She strode past the woman and out the door, heading toward the dining room. The woman walked beside her.
She entered the dining room. Crowley was staring out the window.
"Okay, I'm here," she snapped. "What do you want?"
"It's not what I want that is under scrutiny this morning, Claire," Crowley answered moving away from the window. "I invited you here to ask you what you want."
"Why would that matter to me?"
"Well," Crowley said, "perhaps I can help."
"You want me to make a deal with you?"
"I don't see why I can't. It does depend on what it is you want."
"You can't bring back the dead."
"No, I can't."
"I didn't think so."
"Out of curiosity, who is it you want back from the dead? Your mother? Or is it your father? Didn't you find out he died quite recently, though his body is still walking about with an angel using it?" Claire blinked. "I may not be able to bring your dad back for a brief moment. The two of you can talk."
"That's a simple spell. Even I can perform it. I don't need your help if my dad's soul has crossed on."
Crowley chuckled. "Your dad didn't die of conventional means. The usual spells may not work."
"I'm not giving you my soul," Claire said, her hand rising to her throat where her cross hung. "It belongs to another and no one else can have it."
Crowley arched an eyebrow. "You're a true woman of the Cross. Impressive. People of your caliber are rare these days. I've been looking for a challenge."
"Thank you," Claire said, sitting down. "Then you know that nothing you offer me will be enough to make me want anything from you."
"Of course," Crowley said, sitting across from her. "Can't blame a demon for trying."
"Definitely not. And you'll continue trying, if I know anything about demons."
Crowley smirked. He was relishing this, Claire figured.
"Go ahead," Crowley said, waving his hand at the food. "Eat."
#
Dean stared out the window. Snow was blanketing the ground. And the Impala was turning from black to white.
Meg returned, trampling snow into the room. "Have you ever gone through a day so long?"
"Once or twice," Dean muttered. "They never get easier."
"I hate snow," she growled.
"It won't get in the way of what we need to do." Dean stood, walking to the table where a plate of microwave lasagna waited for him.
"Good," Meg said, removing her coat and shoes.
"Still want to die after all this?"
"Not after," Meg stated, "Before. I have nothing to fight for. No purpose. I'd rather be dead."
"Fine with me," Dean said. "How do you intend to do it though? We don't have the knife. The Colt is only God knows where…"
"I was hoping Castiel would be willing to smite me."
"Well, there's always that," Dean said. "But there's one little problem—"
"You don't have to remind me," Meg snapped.
Dean shrugged, his face stuffed with lasagna. Meg wrinkled her nose at him.
"Sorry excuse of a man," she muttered under her breath.
"I've been looking for you two."
Dean almost choked on his food, scrambling off the chair. Meg just looked up.
"Crowley," Meg muttered.
"Meg."
Dean swallowed. "Where's Sam and Claire?"
"Safe," Crowley assured him. "Now, I'm guessing you're going to lock me and the others away again. What if I told you that to do so would mean forfeiting the life of the rest of your little family?"
"That's perspective for you," Meg mumbled sarcastically.
Dean turned off the lights. He and Meg looked up. Crowley shook his head and looked up. "Again? Really?"
"Bring them all back. Cas, Sam, and Claire," Dean demanded.
"Or what?" Crowley barked. "What can you do? You're all rusty and flabby to a point without us here to keep you on your toes."
"If it means even one less son of a bitch on earth," Dean shot back, "then I'd rather get fat!"
"And that didn't come out the way it was supposed to," Meg muttered. She shook her head. "No. It didn't come out right."
"That'd be something. Like it or not, Dean, you need us."
"No, we don't. Earth's been better off since all demonic assholes were locked away in Hell."
"Dean, I suggest two things: one, agree to my terms. Your family will be safe so long as you stand down. Two, let me out of here."
"Or what?"
An invisible force rammed into Dean knocking him onto the ground and pinning him there.
"I think my dog speaks for himself."
Dean grunted, trying to push the hell hound off him. He felt a large tongue lick his face.
"Geroff!" he demanded, trying to shove the dog off. It only laid down on top of him, getting comfortable.
Crowley laughed. "I think he likes you, Dean. Careful, what he likes tends to get ripped apart. I'd think quickly."
Dean glared at Crowley. "Meg," he grunted. "Let him out."
"Wise choice."
"Dean, I wouldn't do it."
"I would," Crowley reminded her. "And I'll deal with you later, Meg." Meg took a knife and approached the trap, scratching the paint off. Once it had peeled and broken, Crowley stepped out.
"Your dog," Dean said. "Call him off."
"And about my other request?"
Dean stared at Crowley.
"How about I give you a little more perspective," he said, approaching Dean and scratching the hound behind the ears, kneeling down. "That little girl, Claire, I like her. She'll be the first to go. Slowly, painfully. Have you any idea how euphoric it would be to see that pretty and stoic face twisted in pain?"
"You leave her alone!"
"How about Sam, then? I've a bunch of old devices—a collection, you could say. Many of my toys are from the Spanish Inquisition. Creative bunch, the inquisitors."
Dean pushed on the hell hound's ribs.
"Should I go on? Let's see, what do I have planned for Castiel? He'd be difficult, being an angel. If he was human, it'd be easy…"
"Okay!" Dean grunted. "Okay."
"Dean, what are you saying?" Meg snapped.
"What was that, Dean?" Crowley asked, smirking. "I didn't quite catch that."
"I promise not to send you back to hell," Dean said through grit teeth. "But if you so much as touch one hair on their heads—"
"Understood." Crowley said. "Shall we seal the deal?"
Dean tried kicking the hound off, but his legs were as pinned as his body.
"Crowley," Meg snapped. Crowley looked at her. "I've another proposition." She splashed him. His skin smoked and reddened. The dog jumped off and tackled Meg, who jumped away and splashed holy water on the beast as well.
"Dean! Send him to Hell!" She grabbed a water gun from under the table and spraying both the hell hound and Crowley.
Dean jumped to his feet.
"Regna terrae, cantate Deo," Dean shouted. "Psallite Domino qui fertis super caelum caeli ad Orientem ecce dabit voci Suae vocem virtutis, tribuite virtutem Deo. Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.
"Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare. Vade, Satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine, quem inferi tremunt.
"Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos. Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris, te rogamus, audi nos. Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae te rogamus, audi nos. Terribilis Deus de sanctuario suo. Deus Israhel ipse truderit virtutem et fortitudinem plebi Suae. Benedictus Deus. Gloria Patri!"
Crowley shouted and vanished in black smoke. The whimpering dog also went with him in a wave of smoke.
Dean and Meg exchanged looks.
"What now?"
"I'll go get the stragglers," Meg said, vanishing.
Dean sat down at the table, he stared at the lasagna and pushed it away, his appetite—much to his chagrin—had disappeared.