Oh, yeah, demonic!Dean makes one little inappropriate comment, and the Destiel fans come out, like hyenas to a carcass...
Chapter Twenty-Two
"I did warn you that you'd have to change more than your suit," chortled Bobby.
The King of Hell stood before them, resplendent in robe and halo. He clutched a harp, and behind him, a pair of dark grey feathered wings rustled uncertainly.
"Father still holds out hope for your eventual redemption," Castiel told him with a small smile, "And you have experience in being an angel, Crowliel."
"Don't call me that!" yapped Crowley irritably, as his wings, which had never been fully under his control when he did an unfortunate stint as an angel due to an Infernal-Celestial computer glitch, flapped around, beating him about the head and shoulders. "Ow! Ow! Stupid wings!" He used his harp to swat at them, giving rise to some discordant twanging noises and a small shower of feathers. Jimi Junior barked happily, and jumped to snap playfully at the fluttering plumes as they swished through the air.
"Calm down, asshat," Bobby instructed, "You know that if you get agitated, so do your wings."
"At least you've had some practical experience with appearing and bearing messages," Sam pointed out, "Last time you were, uh, angelified."
Crowley gave him a sour look. "And what a triumph that was," he remarked tartly. "As I recall, I finished up with a musical instrument jammed up my nose."
"Well, you don't need to play music this time," Bobby reassured him, "Just manifest before the sinner, and put the fear of God into him or her. Or the fear of Hell, don't matter which."
"In angelic manifestation, you are a Herald, a Messenger of Heaven," Castiel said encouragingly, "And so you are ideally suited to this task."
"Right, right, ideally suited," nodded Crowley, "I'm about as fit to be an angel of the bloody Lord as Jeffrey Dahmer was to be a celebrity chef! I know what I'm talking about, his cooking still sucks, don't get me started on his liver pâtê, OW! Bloody wings!"
"You can stop your hissy fit right there, Miss Crowley. Or Miss Crowliel, heh heh," Bobby cut in, "You are goin' to do this Trial, and I don't care whether you like it, you are goin' to do it, and you are goin' to succeed. Failure is not an option."
"Pfah! Thanks for the pep talk, Coach," griped Crowley, spitting out a mouthful of feathers. "An impressive angel I'll make, being attacked by my own sodding wings."
"It will be up to you to strike awe into the heart of a sinner by your manifest presence," Castiel instructed the reluctant Trialee, "As somebody with a good understanding of the importance of appearances, I'm sure you will manage a convincing performance."
"Oh, I'll be convincing, all right," Crowley agreed gloomily, "Of course, what this person ends up convinced of is another thing entirely – possibly that they ate too much cheese before bedtime."
"I have located an individual that I believe to be a suitable candidate for redemption," Castiel went on, calling forth a small scroll and handing it to Crowley. "I believe that inspiring this person to repent will fulfil the spirit of the Trial, and be sufficient to count as a success."
The hesitant Herald read the document, and his eyes widened. "Are you kidding me?" he yipped, "This bloke is only one of the most successful, most wealthy, most recognised people in business! He makes more per minute than you lot put together are worth!"
"He sounds like a guy who knows how to drive a bargain," commented Sam, grinning as Crowley's discomfiture, "Are you saying that the King of the Crossroads has met his match?"
"If I was making a deal, it wouldn't be a problem," griped Crowley, "I'd eat him for breakfast. Except I wouldn't have to; the way this bloke's made his billions, he's headed straight Downstairs before he's even cold, go to Hell, go directly to Hell, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. His soul is so rotten, it wouldn't even take a 60-second sound bite from one of Professor Moose's fascinating dissertations to finish his transformation into a demon."
"Sounds like the ideal subject, then," nodded Bobby, "So, off you flutter, Crowliel, heh heh, Crowliel, that'll never get old."
"You really think he's going to listen to some guy in a dress?" snarked Crowley.
"For your sake, he'd better," Bobby smiled sweetly, "Because if you don't convince him to mend his ways, I will commit to a viable shared corporate vision with an asset liquidation component that will realign and repurpose your dialoguing process with the level playin' field and benchmark the leveragin' of your core business, you hear me?"
"Oh, Bobby," murmured Crowley, "I love it when you talk corporate to me."
"Knock it off, asshat," Bobby snapped, "And go make with the redeeming."
"Very well," sighed Crowley – or Crowliel, playing a sad minor chord on his harp. "Well, what do you know, it's just like disarticulating a limb, you never forget." Out of curiosity he played a rippling scale.
The sound was echoed from behind them, followed by a soaring arpeggio that segued effortlessly into Adagio in G minor as reconstructed by Albinoni's biographer.
"Balls," muttered Bobby, "I'm gonna put a GPS locator on your collar, boy."
"Dean!" Sam spun around, and facepalmed with a groan. "Oh, God, not again."
Dean looked up from his new guitar, and beamed. "So, what do you think, huh?" he asked. "You like the classical stuff." He drew another hauntingly mournful phrase from the instrument.
"Yeah, yeah, it's really good," agreed Sam in a resigned tone. "Much more melodic than some of the other stuff you like. Now, why don't you take it back?"
"But I really like this one," Dean clutched the guitar protectively.
"Not the guitar, jerk, the body! You don't wanna lose yours again. And somebody will notice if he's missing. Besides, the hair is even longer than mine."
"You think I should get him a haircut?" Dean frowned thoughtfully, twisting a strand of his Yngwie Malmsteen meatsuit's magnificent man-mane around a finger.
"No!" yapped Sam, "Just, just, take him back, and put him back where you found him, okay?"
With a put-upon humph, Dean played a last riff on the guitar, put it down, and disappeared.
"And here I was, thinkin' that I was forgettin' why demons annoy the crap out of me," muttered Bobby, turning back to the reluctant Heavenly Messenger. "Okay, Crowliel, heh heh, time for you to run along and do your little errand, too."
"I suppose so," Crowliel, the youngest and most unwilling member of the Host sighed, "If I'm going to make a complete fool of myself, I might as well get it over and done with. But before I undertake this exercise in embarrassment, I have three conditions."
"You aint in no position to be makin' demands, asshole," growled Bobby.
"You meet my conditions, or I won't do it," pouted Crowley.
"I'll think about it," growled Bobby, "Let's hear 'em."
"First, when I've done this, I will need to make a trip downstairs to pick up a clean suit. And burn this, this, this ridiculous nightie."
"Okay," agreed Bobby, "What's next?"
"Second, I will also need to make a trip to the Scottish Highlands, to procure some very good single malt to help me recover from the entire catastrophe, as it's bound to leave me traumatised in ways that not even Lucifer himself could manage to inflict."
"Fair enough," nodded Bobby, "And finally?"
"I'm not going anywhere until Clarence takes these bloody training wheels off me!"
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It was a large, expensively appointed office, in a large, expensively appointed building, sited in a large, expensively appointed part of New York, and occupied by a large, expensively appointed man. In middle age, David Proll's physique was starting to put on some extra padding; he begrudged time spent in the gym, because it took him away from the one true passion in his life, making money, but he kept up a modest effort, because having the size to intimidate people in person was even more fun than bending their companies over and making them his bitches. Anyway, he could afford the best tailoring that money could buy to flatter and conceal, so why waste any more time than was absolutely necessary?
With a bemused smile, he hung up on the tearful voice on the other end of the line, and stretched luxuriantly before pouring himself a generous measure of some very good liquor. Women were like the companies he steamrollered: they queued up to sleep with him, because money and power was at least as effective as pulling bitches as a six-pack. Find 'em, fuck 'em, forget 'em. It worked in his business life, it worked in his personal life. It was so brutally simple, he sometimes thought he should write a book.
He stood, gazing down at the bright lights of traffic and the growing dark of Central Park, sipping his drink and wondering whether the chopper would be a better commuting option, global warming be damned, he could afford the av gas. He'd toyed with the idea of learning to fly one of the things himself, but then, he enjoyed having people at his beck and call, waiting around until he told them to do something. It's not like he couldn't afford it: his personal fortune was such that numbers had no meaning anymore. He had… lots. More than enough to buy whatever indulgences or politicians he cared to. The actual money wasn't the point any more, it was the challenge of getting as much as possible, and taking it away from other people, that mattered. Life was good.
He was just thinking about the flying lessons thing again, because it might be kind of cool to be able to fly your own helicopter around, then have lackeys do it for you anyway, when a strange humming noise caught his attention. Puzzled, he turned from the window.
As the noise grew louder, he placed a hand on the desk, and realised that it was vibrating. jerking his hand back, he saw that everything was starting to shake.
There was no response from the intercom, or his phone – the lines seemed to be down. Earthquake, he supposed, as the humming grew louder, and a small desktop ornament of Lady Justice being convincingly screwed by Uncle Pennybags fell to the floor.
As he debated getting under the desk or heading for the fire stairs, the shaking grew more vigorous, and the humming escalated to a buzzing, then a howling roar, until he clutched his hands over his ears. Books tumbled from the shelves, light fittings shattered, and a plush leather sofa on which he'd enjoyed some very fun sex with dubious consent from a number of partners exploded.
David fell to his knees as a bright flash of light seared his eyeballs, making him think for a moment that some extremist raghead who hated America and freedom and bacon had let off a pocket nuke in the street below…
There was sudden stillness, and only the sound of the aircon whirring almost silently.
"David Proll," intoned a solemn voice, "David Proll, I am here to save you."
Blinking, the bewildered business pirate looked up.
Some guy in a toga stood glaring at him. He was holding a harp. And he had a halo.
"David Proll," the intruder intoned again, "Hearken unto me, for…"
David drew his gun. "Who the fuck are you?" he demanded.
Toga-guy stopped, and cleared his throat. "I am… Crowliel," he went on, with a slight hesitation, "I am… I am an Angel of the Lord, a Messenger of Heaven, and I am manifest unto you, David Proll, to…"
"Fuck that." David emptied the clip into Toga-guy's chest.
Poor Crowley. It's just Not Fair, is it? In the Trafalgar Square of Life, he's never a pigeon, he's always a statue. You may recall his stint as Crowliel, the most reluctant member of the Heavenly Host, from 'In A Flap'. He's not enjoying it any more now than he did then.
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