As I sharpen my teeth and stare at the sun
When I wake I will hunger no more
Oh satisfaction was the bread of the day
But somehow I tamed the beast
And they made me their king
But those evil eyes were focused
So I said be still...and I dropped my crown
"The Hungry King" by Sent by Ravens
It didn't take long to get out of the hospital. Dean flashed the on-call nurse a mega-watt smile, and Sam gave her his signature shy grin. She melted. Castiel Novak was never there.
Of course, Dr. Crowley wasn't as easy. He'd protested at first, something of a glint in his dark eyes.
"Oh come on, boys," he sighed dramatically, leaning against the still ajar door. "Stay awhile. Drinks on me."
Sam raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, no offense, guy, but we hardly know you. And you're never gonna see us again."
The doctor gave a grin of shiny, oddly sharp teeth.
"You'd be surprised, Jolly Green."
It was Castiel's turn to intervene: he looked appropriately ruffled, head tilted as he leaned in to stare at Crowley.
"You have a dark soul. I do not trust you." He frowned. "I suggest we leave and never return, Sam Winchester." He addressed Sam without looking at him, his eyes remaining pinned on the smirking doctor.
"It's just Sam, Cass..." Sam mumbled moodily in reply. Still, he agreed. There was something off about Crowley, something that wormed its way into the back of his skull and gnawed at the worry there like a parasite. He didn't trust him, flat-out.
"Well pardon, kitten, but I'm not the freak who healed my friggin' crushed ribcage in three minutes," Crowley snarled back at Cass, looking uncomfortably smug about it all. "So I'd back slowly before we end up making out here."
Castiel looked confused.
"What does making–"
"Okay, Chuckles, time to go," Dean snatched Cass' elbow, steering him away from the still leering Crowley. "Look man, you gotta keep quiet on this. Ix-nay on the ealing-hay. Look, we'll even pay you, right Sammy?"
Sam sighed laboriously, pulling his wallet from his jean pocket.
"Yeah. Sure." He yanked a few spare hundreds from the leather, shoving them at the doctor. "Merry Christmas."
Ten minutes later, they were huddled in the Impala, Dean already fiddling excitedly with the dials of the radio, his eyes sparking when "For Whom The Bell Tolls" began to play. He was gone with the opening chords.
But as they pulled away, already destined for their somewhat delayed hunt, Sam couldn't help but glance back up at the murky light emitting from the hospital window for room 2277.
He could have sworn he saw a silhouette there, but when he looked again, the room was dark as the rest.
...
Crowley fished his cell from his pocket with a sideways laugh. It was too easy, really. Far too easy.
He started to dial the familiar number, fingers itching for the buttons, but he paused just before.
Why, he wondered off-handedly, should I bow to Lucifer?
I could be King.
He smiled. He was so hungry, after all, for some little piece of wasteland for himself. Years of working government jobs had made him restless, fruitless, cruel, and viscious.
His phone rang, discordant amongst his thoughts.
"Cheers," he barked into the receiver. "Who the Hell is this?"
A quiet laugh from the other end.
"Hell itself, my dear Crowley."
"Lucy. Joy." Crowley forced a jaunty edge to his voice. He was still affiliated with Hell, still attached in more ways than one. That whore of a bitch Meg had roped him into this. All he'd wanted was a cool million in counterfeit, a nice mansion, a personal tailor, and maybe an army or two. Was that too hard to ask?
"I missed that sarcastic whine," Lucifer said on the other end. He sounded tense, frustrated.
"And I missed the taste of your boots, Lucy, but I'm busy now, so scram. Toodles!" He moved to hang up. Down the hospital hall, a monitor started to moan dangerously.
"Oh, but Crowley, I heard you got a visitor today."
"How did you–"
"Ears and eyes," Lucifer laughed. "I have them everywhere."
The monitor suddenly stopped wailing, and Crowley found himself wishing for the distraction again, something to tide his disgust.
"No idea what you're on about, mate," The lie was electrifying on his tongue, and he felt his confidence return on reckless feet. "This place is about as dull as a PG-13 rom-com, maybe duller." He didn't need to mention the plaid-clad idiots, or the strange young man in the trench-coat. The cash in his pocket was light and sweet.
"Liars don't go nice places when they die, you know," Lucifer sighed heavily, laced with static. "In fact, they go to very bad places indeed. This is my kingdom, Crowley. You do as I say."
Crowley shifted the cell to his other hand, his stomach churning with frustration.
"Kingdom my ass," he mumbled. "Alright, fine, there were some morons hanging around here. Winchesters. Hunters. They had a...friend." He distinctly remembered the shaded looks exchanged between the green-eyed man and the blue-eyed man. A different sort of look that Crowley knew all too well. But Lucifer need not know. There it was again, that rich chasm of joy he got from screwing over the boss.
"A friend." Lucifer sounded pensive. Crowley could hear him pacing, his feet making careful noises on ancient wood. "His name was Castiel, am I right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, that's right. Cass, they called him." He scoffed. "Wasn't much of a conversationalist, that one. I'll tell you that, mate."
"A nickname. How...sickening."
Crowley couldn't help but agree.
"These Winchesters...why were they with him?"
"Wait a bloody minute here, Lucy, I'm not your personal mailman, here–" Crowley protested moodily, rolling his eyes as Lucifer cut him off once more.
"Castiel healed himself. Didn't he, Crowley?"
Outside, an ambulance yanked into the ER loading bay. He'd have to get back to work soon, get back to reality, or at least a dirty facade of it.
But when he tried to answer the man on the other end, he found the dial tone echoing quietly in his ears, all signs of the conversation bled dry, like a valley of dirt.
Crowley, hungry for his crown, returned to his work.
...
In Anytown, USA, the Winchesters could sniff out a good greasy diner better than police dogs on the trail of a kingpin. Currently, Dean Winchester was face down in an apple pie, Castiel watching him with mixture of fascination and horror.
"I don't understand. Why are you groaning, Dean?" He sat rigidly in the booth, his trench-coat collar turned awkwardly up against his cheek.
"Because it's fucking pie, Cass," came the muffled reply. Cinnamon spat across the table as Dean gestured at Cass' attire. "Dude, you totally look like that detective from Sherlock."
"You mean Sherlock?" Sam called from the counter, where he was paying.
It was two minutes flat before Dean finished his pie.
After dinner, Dean found Castiel leaning against the side of the Impala, hands pressed deep into his pockets. His face was turned upwards, towards the sky, and Dean could have sworn there was a smile on his lips, a certain satisfaction in his eyes. But it could have been the light, it could have been the angle of the street lamps lining the parking lot.
He joined him there, saying nothing about the sudden proximity of them, hoping Cass isn't as oblivious as he seems.
"Hey," he started nervously. "You okay, man?"
Cass didn't do anything. He was inhumanly still, and the black of his hair against the pale of his skin in the seedy light made him seem almost statue-like, almost inanimate.
"I do not know, Dean."
Dean bumped his shoulder against Castiel's, smirking. He wanted desperately to pull him into another hug (a thought that simultaneously disgusted and shocked him) but instead he gave a short laugh.
"You wanna try to figure it out then?"
Cass squirmed, mumbling something under his breath. It sounded like the same odd language that he had used the first night they'd met. Dean didn't know he was bilingual.
"What language is that, Cass?" Dean asked, not unkindly.
"It's...Enochian." Castiel replied after a moment's hesitation. His serious eyes were focused on Dean now. "My brother taught me. He liked it."
"Well I have no idea what Enochian is, but it sounds nice. Your brother–"
"Do you really love me, Dean?" Cass interrupted him suddenly, in an uncharacteristically worried voice.
The Impala shook slightly as Dean shifted to stare at Castiel. He felt his heat speed, then slow, then finally kick up again in a nervous flutter. Why was his face so hot?
"Uh," he said, ever eloquent.
"It's alright. It must be kind of hard," Castiel stared at the ground, where his nice shoes where, scratched and stained. "I mean, you met me three weeks ago and all I've done is get you into trouble and make you fix my irrelevant problems and–"
"Cass," Dean said. "Shut up."
And he did.
"Look, you aren't really my type," he started, scratching the back of his head anxiously, "but honestly, dude? You're kind of badass."
For the first time in days, Castiel let out a tiny laugh. It sounded raw and nervous, like is hadn't been used in years, but Dean decided he rather liked that laugh. He dove on.
"And I've never really had much of 'love' and shit, besides Sammy and my Mom, but you? You're different. You're my best friend, Cass. Don't forget that, okay?"
But he didn't feel like a friend. Dean shifted uncomfortably as those blue eyes looked sideways and slightly up at him again.
"And, uh...we're gonna find your boyfriend, okay? Balthazar. We're gonna find him. Everything's gonna be okay."
Castiel took a deep breath, and if Dean hadn't known better, he would have claimed he saw a flicker of sadness, a flicker of vulnerability in his straight face.
"Okay. I trust you."
The street lamps really were terrible. The last one flickered, then sparked out, leaving the two in near-complete darkness. Dean felt Cass' hand slip almost undetectably into his, cold fingers winding around his calloused ones.
Dean laughed.
"Jesus, I never tagged you as a scaredy-cat, Cass," he giggled. Nontheless, he squeezed the hand back. "Now no more chick-flick moments. Sam's probably getting bored in there. We've gotta hit the hay."
That was when Castiel kissed him. It was barely noticeable, just the nervous scrap of his lips against Dean, and he pulled away jerkily immediately afterwards, but it sent a violent shock of electricity through Dean.
Even after Cass opened the Impala's backseat door, and climbed in rather stiffly, he stood outside, mouth slightly ajar.
In the half-darkness of the diner parking lot, Dean Winchester, hunter-extraordinaire, was completely and utterly awe-struck.
...