Chapter 8: Kitten

Crowley sat on his elegant black leather spinning chair twirling aimlessly behind his broad mahogany desk. He had recently claimed a new and more well defended office. It was a beautiful office, large, picture windows, dark stained bookshelves, thick, soft carpet. A lovely office. He had returned to his duties and King of Hell, even if he was, at the moment, the contested King of Hell. He had looked for that blade, and was nearly upon it, collected demons loyal to him and was nearly ready to reassert himself as King. By all accounts, he should be very pleased with himself, and being pleased with himself was something he was normally very good at. Very good at.

It was late, he held a tumbler of scotch in his hand that he was sipping idly. Regardless of the opulence around him, he was...discontented. He had been doing much consideration of his emotional state. He had wanted that girl, desperately wanted her. But...he wasn't sure that he really wanted her. He knew nothing about her. She was intriguing, a capable fighter, willing to push back when most backed down. Those were attractive qualities. But beyond her mystery, which he was still interested in figuring out, he didn't know her. He had nearly convinced himself, worked very hard at convincing himself, that his only real desire was for companionship. He had been alone since... since. He had always been alone, even as a human he had never loved someone, he had always assumed that would be opening a wound. But then, he had always thought of it as love letters and trysts. He was beginning to yearn for something more...companionable.

He leaned back in his chair and swirled his scotch, finishing it in a last swig. His mind, as he sat in the quiet light of the fire in the hearth beyond his desk, began to draw up designs. He couldn't help but imagine a girl, oh by the fires of Hell the girl, coming into his office. Refilling his scotch. Sitting on the arm of his desk. She would look over the work in front of him. She would lean against him, perhaps she would have wine. White wine. She would be holding an elegant glass of white wine and curled up against his shoulder. She would feel the tension in his body and ask him about his day because she wanted to know about his day, rather than out of propriety. He would scowl and snarl about his misbegotten plans, his small failures, the minor demon betrayals and failings. He would get too upset, snarl and shout, she would loosen his tie and kiss his brow, try to soothe him, soothe him. She would be his council, his adviser, perhaps, his queen.

He shook his head. This was a silly daydream. He wanted the companionship she hinted at much more desperately than he wanted that girl specifically. He at least recognized that. There would be other girls, wouldn't there? He would find another woman who would be brave enough to charge him down in a library and fascinating enough to convince him to spend three days healing her. He groaned and suddenly felt oppressively lonely.

He got up, he needed to move, or do something. He wanted to talk to her, unravel her secrets. He was filled with an unqenchable zeal and, crackling with energy, was determined to hunt her down and kiss her again. He sat heavily, drained as quickly as he had been energized. He leaned his head back against the chair, he growled to himself and rolled his head to look at his decanter. It was empty. He really needed another scotch.

The door creaked open and there was a gentle knock. His head shot up, hand going to the angel blade secured under his desk.

Mary stood in the doorway, leaning against the jam.

"This is a surprise." He wasn't going to really question how she found his new office, there were more important questions he had.

"May I come in?" She asked politely, "I come bearing gifts." She held up a bottle of amber liquid.

He smiled briefly, "Yes, come in."

She came in slowly, unsurely. "I wanted to apologize."

He waved his hand, he didn't want her apologies.

"You can make it up to me by answering my questions."

She walked around his desk and held up the bottle questioningly, it was his brand, he nodded. She sat on the arm of his chair and refilled his scotch. "I'll answer your questions." Her tone was soft. Sad.

He looked up at her, "You were so careful about your secrets before, now you're willing to tell all?"

She was looking out the dark window. In this lighting, leaning on his armrest, she looked elegant. She had discarded her youthful floral skirts, she was wearing a flowing silvery shirt, it clung to her body enticingly, well fitting black pants. If that ring on her finger she always twirled were not missing its stone, she really might look like a queen. Her hair was done up in complicated twists he hadn't seen in a few hundred years. He like them.

"Where did you lose the stone?" he asked, touching the ring, carefully not touching her skin.

She laughed and sighed, "Southern Spain, in the sea."

He sipped his drink and smiled at her, "Was it worth it?"

She laughed again, a long, real laugh, and again she became a beauty. Her delicately aligned face was lit by the fire in the grate and her laughter resonated through his chest. Her eyes were dark and nearly glistening."I lost it swimming in crystal water in the moonlight and it was only a diamond. Yes, it was worth it."

"Alone?"

She looked down at him, her eyes fixing for a long moment on his lips, "No, I wasn't alone."

He let his hand graze from the metal of the ring onto her fingers, he spoke in a low and gravely near whisper, "The man you were with, was it the same one who gave you the ring?"

She lowered her voice, a caramel alto hush trickling from her lips, "Yes."

"How did he feel that you had lost the stone?"

She smiled then, a nostalgic smile, "He told me he would overturn every stone in the sea to find it."

"And did he?"

"Overturn every stone? Yes."

"And find it?"

She looked at him for many moments, "No, there were some things even he couldn't accomplish."

A long, unnerved silence stretched between them, her eyes hesitantly combing him.

"This scotch is good." He said to quell the tension.

She smiled warmly, "I know."

She leaned back, her shoulder against his, he wished he had some wine to offer her, "So, who is this queen threatening your throne?"

Crowley groaned, "You want to talk about my politics?"

She nodded, "Your politics will be enough for now."

Crowley withheld his smirk, "Her name is Abadon, a knight of Hell."

She took his glass, allowing her fingers to sweep his, as he had, and sipped some of his scotch, "Well, King trumps Knight. You'll get your throne."

He took his glass back and finished it, "Thank you for your encouragement. Do you have anything more useful than well meant adages?"

She exhaled sharply through her nose, "What did you have in mind? Military assistance?"

"If you've any to offer." he jibed back.

"Oh yes, you talk to your allies and make deals, and I'll don my armor and lead your legions and together we will be an unstoppable force of Hell."

Crowley looked at her, "Yes."

She smiled darkly at him, "Do you always let girls come in off the street and take your legions?"

He wiggled his eyebrows at her, "No, but I've seen you in armor and you're worth the risk."

She laughed, really laugh, head thrown back, peals of laughter falling from her lips like gold, "This is what I can offer, show more mercy than she does, Crowley, she's a Knight of Hell, she'll be acting like a tyrant, act like a leader."

He scoffed, "They're demons, darling, not wayward soldier poets."

"So are you."

"What?"

She grinned mischievously at him, and poured him more scotch, "You're a demon, Crowley, and when you were ruled by a tyrant you rebelled. If you want to rule Hell for good, you need real loyalty, not scared, better than the other option loyalty."

"I'll take it into consideration."

She stood up, "I have to go, Crowley, I have...something I should have done a long time ago." She looked suddenly cripplingly sad. "This has been nice."

"Come anytime."

She walked to the door and stopped. She touched the doorway and turned around again, "Crowley, can I ask you a favor...I know you don't owe me anything."

"You might as well ask."

She stared at him and in a tremulous, soft voice that belayed her previous confidence asked brittley, "Tell me 'Goodnight,' call me 'Kitten,'" she paused and looked at him with large eyes and bit her lip, "Kiss me."

He rose and walked deliberately toward her, not breaking eye contact. He allowed his eyes to be softened. He stopped right before her and tenderly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his hands carefully and firmly on the sides of her face he leaned toward her and kissed her. It wasn't like before. It wasn't desperate, he was soft and she responded with a kiss that was almost sad,she touched his face, running her fingers across his bone structure, as though she was trying to commit him to memory.

He leaned back and looked at her, straight into her eyes, hand cupping her cheek, "Goodnight, kitten." he whispered. She stood quite still, her breath ragged and broken, eyes glimmering, then turned and fled from the room.

He stood without moving, looking at where she had been. He could have an evening like that every night. He turned to go back to his desk and stopped dead. That stunt there at the end, asking him to kiss her. The way she had looked at him, it was upon him all of a sudden, she was saying goodbye.

A thrill cut through him and a spike of hot dread.

XXXXX

Moments later he appeared in the middle of the Winchester encampment, yelling for them to awaken with ferocity. As it turned out, neither of them were asleep.

"Woah, Crowley, you gotta learn how to knock."

Crowley snarled at Dean, "There is going to be another attack, tonight, now, there are humans to save." The last bit he added only to get their attention.

Dean took the demon blade off his bedstand and sheathed it, "How do you know?"

"I talked to the girl, from the videos."

Sam gaped at him, "You have contact with her? Where is she?"

"Just come with me!"

It was perhaps a testament to how desperate he seemed that they came with him, even if Dean grumbled about it more than really necessary.

He didn't even really know if he was right, she could have just been leaving, but his partially human blood pumped with terror that this was what she had meant.

XXXXX

The Winchesters were less impressed by the direness of the situation when it became clear that Crowley had no idea where to lead them. He knew that she was somewhere in this town, about to tussle with that creature, or already tussling. How did he not know?

As the search continued passed a half an hour the Winchesters' trust began to flag along with Crowley's hope. Although, if he let himself, he could convince himself to believe that he had been wrong, that she was fine, that he would see her again.

In the end, it was luck.

They were heading up a quiet street when a child had sprinted passed them, terror filling his dark eyes. Crowley, hedging a bet that in a town like this there was likely to be only one thing causing that sort of terror at a time, grabbed him, lifted him in the air.

"Where are they?"

"HEY." Dean growled, "Put him down, you dick."

Crowley shook the boy, "WHERE?"

Terrified tears falling down his little cheeks the boy pointed up the street, there was one house with a light on, shining through a door hanging from its hinges. Crowley dropped the boy and, without looking back to him, careened toward the door. At the edge of the door Dean seized the back of his jacket and held him back.

"Release me, behemoth."

"Shut it, Crowley, you wanna just run in there with no idea what we're up against?"

Crowley flicked his wrist and sent Dean crashing backwards through the hedges. He went through the door, snarling. He could smell sulfur and something pleasant, taste terror that clung in the air.

A crash echoed from the second floor, and gave aim to his madness. He looked manically for the staircase and, upon locating it, took them three at a time.

He moved with all of his speed but it seemed to him that the air was viscous and holding him back, as in a dream when you can't properly run. From somewhere on the second floor he could hear a voice, a deep male voice, harsh and firm echoing in gravelly bursts interspersed with rough laughter, "We're where we always are, if you get close enough to use that little letter opener you'll be close enough for me."

He rounded the corner and looked through an open doorway.

Her back was to him but over her shoulder he could see the monster they had been hunting, his eyes were pupilless, long, sharp fangs jutting out of his mouth, his fingers ended in long, hooked claws and those wings. The spread out around him like death. Blackened skin with mottled feathers. Regardless of the horror he was armed with, the monster's face was what ignited Crowley's fear, it was a familiar face, a face he could never forget, that was not obscured by a mouth filled with fangs. It was Castiel.

She had that knife in her hand, and it looked so small. She moved before Crowley could and for a moment it was as though the motion had stopped and Crowley could only stand rigid and see what was before him. She had changed clothing. This shouldn't have been important enough to note at a time like this. But she was wearing a leather jacket, it was big on her, made for a man. Dirty jeans cuffed over heavy work boots. She launched herself forward and time fled away from him, moving even faster than it should have.

She was upon the beast, Castiel, his claws ripped into her, gripping her sides and raking down them. Blood came out of her body in spurts, one of his hands slashed into her chest and she screamed, a cleaving noise that shattered Crowley. Blue light twisting up his arm and illuminated his face. But her knife was driven home. Deep in Castiel's throat. He sputtered, snarling and gnashing those fangs, he fell back, his wings flapping feebly to help keep his balance. In vein. He collapsed, black and blue light crackling out of his wound. It had not been elegant, nor full of drama, it had just been brief and messy and final.

She was on the ground. Blood pouring from her wound. The tshirt under her jacket was frayed and destroyed. Crowley fell to his knees in her blood, trying to hold her flesh closed. Her body was unnaturally, too quickly cold. He gripped her. But she wasn't there. Her life extinguished, her soul devoured.

He screamed into the ceiling. Anger thundering through him. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. He had just gotten her. He had just come to terms with needing someone and someone had been there, and nearly been his. It wasn't fair. The loneliness he had felt before crushed in upon him and he couldn't breath. He got madly to his feet, he stepped darkly to the wall and slammed his fist into it, fury trying desperately to escape his ruined body.

AN: OOOH YEAH GUYS! I've been looking forward to this one! I hope you guys had as much fun as I did! And thanks to all you lovely reviewers who leave me such beautiful notes! I look forward to them every time!

ANPS: I don't want anyone to be confused, this isn't the end of the story. There is much more on its way.