Disclaimer: I don't own a thing...obviously. A.N. So, I admit this month my flighty Muse has been hijacked by a different pairing – and plot – and the more I researched for this (because I tried) the less happy with myself I was. Am I confident in the results? Not entirely. But I have ideas for the next chapters I'm more stoked about, so the rest of the story should be better. Hopefully, enjoy!
Crowley would be thrilled to dazzle Sam with some over-the-top rendezvous. Well, maybe that was the wrong adjective – he wasn't sure that Sam would be impressed at all by something truly extravagant – but still. He had plans. He'd reread every source he had on the boys, focusing on any detail that could help ensnare his Moose. He just needed the word, and Operation Taming would be ready to go.
Not that he actually used that definition aloud, much less in public. If the Winchesters came across some other demon, one who didn't know how to keep his mouth shut...That would mean Crowley's dreams would be burned and salted. And their pitiful remains sent through a wood-chipper for good measure.
With the hectic life the boys lead, he couldn't just pop in at their door and try to tempt Sam into going along with his plans, too. Even if he successfully located them, there would undoubtedly be a rant about lives on the line, and possibly an invite to make himself useful. Which he could have, sure, but he wasn't looking to pick up a side gig, thank you very much. His own job was annoying enough.
So waiting for a summoning it was. He didn't think it'd take long. After all, Sam had seemed so anxious to sever any tie between them. But time stretched, distastefully gelatinous. Or wibbly wobbly, if you preferred (he had to fill his days with something besides court affairs, if he wanted to keep his sanity). No questionable Latin called for him.
Wondering if Sam had decided he didn't mind owing him one, after all, or if he'd realized that it wouldn't be worth the hassle trying to enforce collecting said debt, didn't make for pleasant entertainment. In the second case, he probably should hold Squirrel responsible. He was in a bad mood. Someone was going to be blamed, reasonably or not.
When – finally! - Sam called, Crowley didn't actually appear right in his room, as he would normally have. As the king of hell, he had a little more margin, even in dealing with such matters. And appearing upstairs out of Sam's room gave him a second to wipe the grin from his face. It wouldn't do to appear too eager. Moose was already aware that he had the lead in this relationship, so to speak. Best not let him know in detail just how far. Besides, leaving him wrongfooted elicited that little confused frown...How a man of his size, age and lethality pulled off adorable with no spell involved, Crowley would never know.
"Why did you want me, Moose?" he asked, when Sam let him in.
"We're in between jobs, Dean is very eager to find his own entertainment...I thought it'd be a good time to make a dent in my debt. If you don't have anything better to do." Sam shrugged.
"Nothing I can't heartlessly abandon," he assured. "Now, if you're willing to follow..."
"You said I could pick," Moose sharply reminded him.
"Of course. Apologies for assuming you'd been too busy to bother."
"I've spent way too long researching options. Did you know we could visit a salt mine?" The boy's smirk only made Crowley want to kiss it away. Patience.
"The deal was to spend some hours together. I'm not sure about the place's layout and how far any not yet dug out veins will let me go, but otherwise I'll be quite at home. You don't mind if I offer the proprietors some interior design suggestions, do you?" Only Sam would propose somewhere with salt lines on steroids.
Sam laughed. "I thought you might. Which is why I had to pick something else. Frankly I was this close to inviting you to a half-marathon to raise funds for a children's hospital, but – wrong perks."
"About a month ago? What, you figured out my masseuse is the one offering her services to the runners?"
"What?" Oh. So Sam hadn't been smart. Just playing hard to get. It made sense, first date, ending it somewhat undressed would have been lovely but not something Crowley truly expected.
"When someone is feeling so utterly all-around virtuous...No deals, of course, but it's prime material for good ol' temptation. They couldn't possibly make a bad decision, could they? They're good." Crowley's smirk said how much he appreciated that kind of self-confidence. "No need to bother tracking her down – I can always get you an appointment, if you want."
Sam's glare was answer enough.
"Good point, Moose. In truth, I'm not eager to share you with any other demon either." Not just yet. Or knowing Sam, probably ever. If anyone was worth giving up orgies for, this man might just be. As much as Crowley liked Lucifer out of the way, you had to give it to the angel – his intended vessel was created to ensnare anyone. The world didn't know how lucky it was; in different circumstances, it might have destroyed itself with a grateful smile.
Sam lead him to the car (not the Impala, undoubtedly out of sheer self-preservation, which Crowley appreciated), and said, "I don't usually have company when I indulge in this kind of thing."
"Not your brother's jam?"
"Definitely not." Sam smiled, shaking his head.
"Always happy to take part in hedonism of any sort."
"Wait till the end, and we'll see if you're still subscribing to that."
Crowley nodded. Oh, so it was like that. He should have expected it, really. Moose decided to hold the reins of the day – and tight, at that – to make sure he'd regret his decision. Sam would pay up and spend time with him, no violence. He'd just make Crowley wish for it, and beg for alternate forms of compensation. Or he thought he could.
Sure, there was his past with Lucifer, plus his brother to ask suggestions from, if he was desperate enough. Torture could go way past simple carving, and Dean had been a diligent pupil. Crowley's own reform of hell, which he was still proud of, banked on that concept. But finding something so unbearable that Crowley would set him free? Who did Sam Winchester think he was dealing with, exactly? Or was he actually trying to match Crowley's own love language? That would have been weirdly considerate, and also hysterically funny.
"I look forward to discovering what you've planned, darling." Challenge accepted. That might be a somewhat risky move, but – they were on a date, weren't they?
"Don't start what you can't deal with, sweetpea." Saccharine and poisonous enough that Crowley couldn't help himself. He burst into a laugh.
"Honey, I'd never. When have I failed to deliver, huh?"
"Do you want the alphabetic or chronological list, pet?"
Really, he might have deceived the Winchesters once or twice. Or thrice. Or – hey, he wasn't exactly counting, and besides, there were sources to look it up on if he ever needed statistics. But they weren't on friendly terms yet (someone might argue you could say that even now, half the time), And he'd argue that, even when he did, he wasn't entirely self-serving. At least a few times, he'd been acting in what he thought was their (fine, mostly Sam's) ultimate best interest. So what if he'd been wrong? He retorted, "You flatterer. I didn't expect you to be spending so much time thinking about me, love, that you'd be able to do either."
Sam turned on the radio. Oh well, what could you do. It wasn't the boy's fault, really. Bad example most of his life. He even managed to settle on one of these stations that have 24-hours news, so there wasn't anything for Crowley to tease him about. He didn't complain, though. It was kind of nice, the continuous list of tragedies and assorted mayhem.
Not that he expected to ever be consulted, but personally he thought the creator had overdone it when he'd gone for monsters. As if people wouldn't have been enough to unleash on the universe. Or maybe they would have been too much, and that's what the monsters were all about?
He hadn't realized he was smiling, but suddenly Sam turned the radio off, asking, "What are you so happy about?"
"Isn't having a pleasant time actually the goal? I'm just enjoying our outing, that's all. It was very considerate of you, to think I might want to catch up with the situation upstairs. Besides, I am afraid I am not nearly conscientious enough when it's time to go through reports. That bloke seemed intent on explaining who I should be expecting, who did get down a hour ago, and so on."
Moose chuckled. Small victory. "I guess you'd see it like that. By the way, we're almost there."
There turned out to be Norton, Kansas. Not the tiniest village, but not the first place Crowley would have picked out of a map when looking for fascinating entertainment, either. He was curious, though. What might have attracted his Moose?
A museum wasn't an odd choice per se. Crowley half expected something educational already. Somewhere you couldn't have dragged Squirrel to? It was always going to be something sophisticated. Academic, even, knowing Moose.
Of all the institutions in the lower 48, a museum dedicated to the losers in every presidential election was...still not what Crowley would have bet on. Not that they called it Losers' Museum. He was pretty sure the choice was intended as half a dig, but it wasn't as well thought out as it could have been. Irritation did make for poor results – you'd think Sam would know.
Of course, he didn't snark...yet. He followed Sam, and when he hired a guide, Crowley even thanked him. If Moose didn't want to miss a detail about bad – well, unsuccessful, bad was rather tautological – politicians, Crowley was game. No matter how tragically boring was the depiction of even the most eventful campaigns. Tuning out people droning on and on about meaningless drivel? That was any day in court.
Sure, he'd hoped to escape it with these outings. Smart move from Moose, he'd admit. They had a chaperon whose mere presence automatically limited interaction. One Crowley couldn't murder without breaking the agreement himself in the first place.
This still beat the alternative. His throne was lonely, and frankly, not that comfortable. Not for how long demons always seemed to dawdle. Having a Moose to hang from instead? It was a nice distraction. On a whim, he'd pushed and started walking arm in arm with his 'date' . Apparently, that wasn't worth interrupting the details of how one Henry Clay managed to lose for three different parties, since Sam allowed it without a word, or even a hard stare. They probably looked a little ridiculous, so mismatched, but it wasn't like they'd meet any of their respective acquaintances.
Besides, aesthetic impressions wouldn't have been high among anyone's priorities, if he ever persuaded (improbable, but a demon could dream) Sam to stay by him to hear petitions.
For now, he enjoyed glancing at his Moose, to gauge how good he was at feigning interest. Better than Crowley had ever been, truth to be told. He hadn't caught his eyes glazing over even once.
When they were finally freed, emerging back into the light of day, Crowley said, "Lovely way to spend an afternoon. Do you want one last bit of trivia our very informative friend couldn't have known?"
"Why not?"
"Samuel Jones Tilden refused a deal, a couple of years before also running. Such a delicate euphemism, that. I was in the area, and politicians are usually eager to bite. I'm honestly still not sure why he did that. No, Hayes didn't sign one instead. But well, I couldn't let him have what I'd tried to entice him with, could I? It'd be bad for business. I didn't expect it'd be as easy as moving one single vote."
"Many politician clients and you've gone unchecked all along?" Moose huffed.
"What can I say, hunters are busy people, and Men of Letters...maybe they couldn't see any difference between my intervention and any average administration. I wouldn't blame them." He shrugged.
This time, Sam laughed. "Point."
"Now, did your plans involve anything else?"
"It's been more than two hours. You said, three dates, six-ish hours, so..." Defensive again. Oh well.
"Of course. I'll let you get back to Squirrel. Well then, thank you for the date, Moose. And a very appropriate one, too."
"What?"
"Well, if Hell opened a matching gallery, you'd be prominent, so..." He smirked.
"I didn't -" Sam roared.
Crowley raised a hand, placatingly. "Put yourself forward, well aware. It doesn't change the fact that someone did."
"He's dead." Did Sam know how positively delicious he sounded when he dripped hate? ...Probably not. Enjoying it seemed wiser than pointing it out.
"They all are, the ones involved in that cabal. The status quo is so much better, isn't it?"
From the automatic smile, Sam had liked his reminder, too. He shrugged.
"To an even better future," Crowley pressed on, before disappearing. As enjoyable as things had finally turned, the atmosphere was volatile enough that it seemed smart.