FIC: How Was I Supposed To Know, Chapter 13 / 16 (Crowley/OFC)
FIC: How Was I Supposed To Know, Chapter 13 / 16 (Crowley/OFC)
AUTHOR: anneelliot201
GENRE: Romance/Drama
PAIRING: Crowley/OFC
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Season 8, references to Season 9
SUMMARY: Hazel is an ordinary woman--a blackjack dealer at a casino in the middle of the New Mexican desert--but her world gets turned upside down when a man in a black suit decides to take an interest in her. PLEASE NOTE THIS FIC WAS WRITTEN WHILE WATCHING SEASON 9 AND THEREFORE DOES NOT COMPLY WITH CURRENT CANON. I TOOK THINGS IN A DIFFERENT DIRECTION FOR STORYTELLING PURPOSES.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote too much and now it's going to be 16 chapters. And it's almost done!
Hazel toed off her black shoes by the door and left them on the welcome mat. Then she walked through the small house, shedding her clothes as she went. Bowtie undone, shirt unbuttoned, skirt unzipped. She carefully hung the clothes on the back of the chair in the bedroom and walked into the bathroom, taking off her bra and underwear while she waited for the water in the shower to warm up.
It had been a long day and she was feeling sad. Part of her was glad she had gotten her old job back and returned to her safe little world devoid of demons and monsters. And part of her felt stifled and trapped, knowing there was a great big world out there where things actually happened. Dean and Sam were out there fighting monsters and protecting people like her who didn’t know any better. And Hazel was dealing cards at a second-rate casino in the middle of the desert. It felt pathetic.
I’m not a fighter like they are, she thought as she stepped into the spray of hot water and quickly washed the grim of the day out of her hair. She thought about her time in the bunker and her conversations with Crowley. She thought about Crowley every day, actually. She felt grief over his death and incredulity that after everything he’d said about how he didn’t know how to be the hero that in the end a hero was exactly what he was. Well, the Winchesters didn’t feel that way, but she did. She wouldn’t be wrapping herself in a fluffy towel and preparing to sit down to a microwaved dinner if he hadn’t sacrificed himself.
After Dean and Sam found her on the road, they had put her in their car and drove back to the bunker. No one was there when they pulled up. The bunker was wide open and they easily searched and cleared the inside. There had been damage from Abbadon, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. While Dean hung the door, Hazel told them everything that had happened from the moment she heard the noises in the bunker to running away after the demon had stabbed Crowley. They both seemed as confused as her on Crowley’s motivations, but they seemed to take it in stride.
The next two days were spent gathering intel to sort out exactly what happened. No one really knew, but Abbadon seemed to be busy fighting a war within Hell. Without the key, it was decided that Hazel was safe from attack. She was promptly driven to Albuquerque and dropped off at her house. Before they left, though, Dean and Sam scoured her place and drew Devil’s Traps on the floor beneath her area rug in the bedroom and on the ceiling above the door. Hazel had no idea how she’d explain it to the landlord, but she’d rather be safe than sorry.
They left her with a duffle bag of hunter tools, a jug of holy water, instructions for protecting herself from demons, and their cell phone numbers. The first few weeks she spent walking on egg shells, always worried that she’d turn around and found a black-eyed person standing there waiting to shove a knife into her chest. But it had been almost six months and she was getting used to her boring life again. No scary monsters in the dark and no one trying to kill her. No one cared enough about her.
Hazel put on a old pair of pajamas and ate dinner. Instead of writing like she tried to do after work, she curled up on the couch with a book. She stared at the cover. It was the new Stephen King novel. She’d checked it out from the library last weekend and needed to return it soon. It made her think of HIM. Crowley. Always Crowley.
A month ago the barista at a coffee shop she liked to stop at on her way to work had asked her out. He seemed shy and sweet. They had a few things in common. But after two dates, she had stopped returning his calls. He didn’t compare. And her life was in a sad state if she was comparing possible boyfriends to a demon who had died six months ago. Died saving her, but died nonetheless.
She looked down at the cover of the book and watched a drop of water fall onto it. It took Hazel a moment to realize the water was a tear that had fallen from her eye. She blinked and a second fell. Work was unrewarding. Life was lonely. She felt like she should be doing something more with herself, but didn’t know what. And she was sure she’d be alone for the rest of her days since there was no way that any man could be as dynamic and alluring as the demon who had stolen in heart in such a bizarre way.
Hazel sniffed and leaned over to pick up a small shoe box on the end table. Feeling so lonely made her think of her brother and the box contained his suicide note and a couple of his belongings. Hank hadn’t been a religious person, but he’d always worn a gold cross that had belonged to their mother. Hazel remembered her dad giving it to Hank on his fifteenth birthday. He hadn’t taken it off since then, not even when he’d jumped. The simple gold cross and Hank’s wallet had been the only possessions she’d picked up from the coroner’s office in Taos after she’d identified the body.
She draped the necklace over her hand and let the low light from the lamp beside her glint off the gold. Life was lonely without Hank. Without her dad. Without someone to share it with. She’d never been very good at keeping friends, but after Hank’s death she’d shut down on everyone, effectively cutting herself off from everyone. Better that than to loose someone again. The only person she’d opened up to at all was Crowley, but he was gone too. Lesson learned; they always leave.
Hazel sighed and closed her hand around the cross, squeezing it tight. And she squeezed her eyes shut just as tight, letting the unshed tears in them roll down her cheeks.
“Hazy?”
The voice made her heart jump up into her throat. She snapped her eyes open and saw him. His color was muted--grey-tinged skin and clothing like there was a pallor over him. She recognized the dark green T-shirt with the rip up the side and the worn jeans with a hole in the left knee and a rip up to right leg. They were the clothes he’d been wearing when he’d jumped.
“Hazy, is that you? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and stood up. He and dad had always called her Hazy. She’d hated it, but now that they hadn’t been around to tease her, Hazel found that she missed hearing it. “Hank, what are you... How?”
“Pretty sure I’m ghosting around, Hazy. I... I don’t know what the hell is going on.” He smiled and looked down at the floor.
She moved around the coffee table and walked up to throw her arms around him. Her body slipped right through the air where he was standing, finding no purchase anywhere. When she turned around he was standing there with his arms out like he’d meant to embrace her too.
“Apparently, ghosts can’t touch shit. I keep forgetting.”
“How are you here? Have you been here all along?”
Hank shook his head. “No. Time is weird, so I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I think I’m breaking the rules. This guy told me that I had a first class ticket to heaven, but I kinda diverted myself here. I was looking for you.”
“Wait, what?”
“I’m sorry, Hazy. I shouldn’t have left you. Are you doing okay?”
She felt the tears rolling down her cheeks again. “Yeah, Hank. I’m doing okay. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. I don’t think I have much time.” He shifted and it looked like he was a hologram that flickered.
“Have you been roaming around looking for me since... since you jumped?”
“Nah, I was a shitty person. Selfish and crap. I got sent to Hell.”
Hazel’s heart felt so heavy, so sad. “Hank, you don’t deserve that.”
“Yeah, well, some dude showed up while I’m getting the full treatment--torture and all that shit. And he says there was a mistake and I have to go to Heaven.”
“What dude?”
“Some dude in a black suit. English accent. Weird guy. Kinda scary.” Hank shrugged. “And then next thing I know I’m back underneath the bridge, standing on a rock in the middle of the water and there’s this light that is drawing me up. Except I don’t let it. I ran.”
“Hank, you should have gone.”
“I wanted to see you, Hazy. I miss you so much. I fucked up so bad. Are you really okay?”
She reached out a hand and it went right through his chest. Hazel smothered a sob. “Yeah, Hank, I’m really okay. I wish you wouldn’t have left, but I don’t blame you. It’s okay. You can go.”
He flickered again as he looked up at the ceiling. “I think my time is up. I... I love you, Hazy.”
A sob escaped her mouth when she opened it and said, “I love you, too, Hank. Be good.”
He smiled. “I’ll try, big sis.”
And then he was gone. She was just staring at the bookshelf that he’d been in front of. Hazel collapsed onto the floor and covered her face, crying into her hands. She remained like that for what felt like hours, but was likely only minutes. All the old grief of losing Hank seemed fresh again. But this time she at least got to say a proper goodbye and tell him she loved him.
It was three-fifty-seven when she picked up her cell and dialed Sam’s number. When he didn’t answer, she dialed Dean. After three long rings, he picked up, his voice sleepy. “Hazel, you okay?”
“Is Crowley alive?” she asked. Hank had told him a man with an accent in a black suit sent him out of Hell. There was only one demon she knew who had that power and knew who Hank was.
“What?” Dean asked. “Is he threatening you?”
“No. Is he alive?” she asked.
She heard the bed squeak as he sat up. “Why?”
“Because I think he just did a me solid. And because I thought he was dead. I saw him get stabbed, Dean.”
“What did he do?” Dean asked.
“He pulled my brother out of Hell and sent him to Heaven. I just got a ghostly visitation. So, he’s really alive?”
Dean sighed. “Well, uh, Sammy and I picked up a demon a few months back when we were looking for a buddy of ours. According to him, Crowley survived and has been battling Abbadon for power in Hell. Not that I like either of them, but it’s kinda nice having them keeping each other busy.”
Hazel felt like she’d gotten the wind knocked out of her. She opened her mouth, but found it difficult to breathe. She hadn’t really expected Dean to admit to Crowley being alive. She thought there was some other explanation for her brother’s visit. “He’s...”
“Hey, if we thought you were in any trouble, we would have said something. He hasn’t been stalking you, right?”
“No.” She felt numb, confused. “No, I haven’t seen him.”
“Well, don’t go looking for him. He’s...”
“Bad. I know. You keep telling me this.”
“Look, I know he saved your ass a few months back, but you have to understand that Crowley never does anything unless he can benefit from it. He escaped and according to the douche we talked to, he’s winning the war with Abbadon.”
“Yeah,” Hazel said, sitting down on the couch. She felt drained, zapped of all energy. Her world had been turned upside down one too many times in the past year.
“You call if you need anything, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Hazel, promise me you won’t go looking for him.”
“I promise. I won’t go looking for him.” And it was the honest truth. Because just as she said goodbye and hung with Dean with, she realized that Crowley had never come looking for her either. She was just where he’d found her--dealing blackjack and assuaging her loneliness with her writing late at night.
He’d gone out of his way to pull her brother out of hell. She knew he was the only one who could have done it. Although, him not trying to seek her out when he survived made her wonder why he bothered to do her the favor since he obviously didn’t care that much. Maybe it was just his way to balancing the scales. She’d helped him escape in that series of events that had almost gotten her killed. Perhaps he just wanted to give her a proverbial nod of thanks.
She shuffled into the kitchen and found a bottle of Kentucky bourbon in the cabinet behind a box of pasta and a few cans of peaches. She poured a shot of it in a squat glass from the shelf over the sink and knocked it back. It burned going down, settling like fire in her stomach. Before she could rethink her actions, she poured another shot and downed it quickly. Maybe it would help her sleep through the night after the trauma of seeing Hank and the heartache of knowing Crowley didn’t give a shit about her.
***********************************
Crowley felt smug, knowing that he was winning. Abbadon liked to call it a war, but it was more like a campaign. Brute force and chaos really only gets you so far. Even demons like to have some sort of security, knowing where they stand and what they can expect if they behave themselves. She was on the run and had few supporters left. And he was back in his position of power, minions surrounding him to do his bidding.
It was what he’d wanted and what he’d been working toward for months. It was just a matter of time before he could imprison Abbadon and have her killed. He just needed to find a way to kill her. The First Blade would be needed, but getting it was trickier than devising a way to imprison Abbadon. Prison was doable; the First Blade was simply out of his reach since it would require the Mark of Cain.
He walked into his study and found a woman kneeling in the floor in front of his desk, her hands behind her back and her chest pushed out for his perusal. She wore not a stitch of clothing. And while the old Crowley would have dominated her, chained her to the wall and whipped her until she cried out and begged to be fucked, he just felt his stomach turn.
“Get out,” he told her.
“But, master,” she said, opening her eyes.
“Out!” he screamed, pointing at the door. She made him sick. All of them made him sick. She stood and hurried out of the room, not looking back at him. If she had, he likely would have decapitated her. Useless demon bitch trying to persuade some favor from him.
Crowley collapsed into his black leather desk chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hazel. He couldn’t get her out of his head. He’d done everything he could to return his world to normal. He’d tortured a few demons and killed a few more in the push against Abbadon and her pathetic followers. He’d made a few deals and collected a few more souls just like old times, back when things were easy. Back when everything was black and white and he always chose black. Now it was all a swirling fucking canvas of grey.
The look on her face when he’d been stabbed... It haunted him. She’d actually cared enough to be upset--even hurt--at his loss. At the time he hadn’t thought much of it since he was too worried about his own skin. When that lowly minion of Abbadon had shoved the blade into his belly, he’d thought he was done for. The pain had been excruciating and overwhelming. It wasn’t until after Hazel had scrambled up the side of the hill over the bunker and the knife came out of his gut that he realized something was wrong. Or right, as luck would have it. He should have been on the ground, dead and gone, but he was still upright, clutching his stomach. The wound glowed hot red as he stepped back.
He’d faintly heard Abbadon curse out some frustration, but his hearing was impaired; he could only hear a roaring sound like the most vast ocean crashing over his head. He blinked and he was back home, collapsing on the floor of his study, confused over what had happened and why he was still alive. Was it the blood?
As it turned out, it wasn’t. It was the key. He’d never carried the thing around because it was too dangerous; it put a target on his back. If he’d known it would protect him, then he would have considered toting it around all the time. Sure, he could be killed, even with the key, but it was much harder. He’d learned as much while researching as he put things in Hell in order.
Crowley closed his eyes and let the heartache wash over him. Somewhere out there Hazel was sleeping or eating or dealing cards. He’d sent a minion to check on her once he’d regained his strength. The Winchesters had returned her to Albuquerque and left her there, right where they had found her. Crowley killed the minion once he returned from the mission. He didn’t want anyone knowing Hazel was anything to him. If someone knew, then she could be a bargaining chip. Abbadon knew, but she had bigger problems right now. Namely, him.
So, Hazel was safe for the moment. It should have felt good, but it didn’t. He wanted to see her, touch her. It was a selfish desire because entering her life again would only put her in danger. But he was nothing if not selfish, right?
AUTHOR: anneelliot201
GENRE: Romance/Drama
PAIRING: Crowley/OFC
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Season 8, references to Season 9
SUMMARY: Hazel is an ordinary woman--a blackjack dealer at a casino in the middle of the New Mexican desert--but her world gets turned upside down when a man in a black suit decides to take an interest in her. PLEASE NOTE THIS FIC WAS WRITTEN WHILE WATCHING SEASON 9 AND THEREFORE DOES NOT COMPLY WITH CURRENT CANON. I TOOK THINGS IN A DIFFERENT DIRECTION FOR STORYTELLING PURPOSES.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote too much and now it's going to be 16 chapters. And it's almost done!
Hazel toed off her black shoes by the door and left them on the welcome mat. Then she walked through the small house, shedding her clothes as she went. Bowtie undone, shirt unbuttoned, skirt unzipped. She carefully hung the clothes on the back of the chair in the bedroom and walked into the bathroom, taking off her bra and underwear while she waited for the water in the shower to warm up.
It had been a long day and she was feeling sad. Part of her was glad she had gotten her old job back and returned to her safe little world devoid of demons and monsters. And part of her felt stifled and trapped, knowing there was a great big world out there where things actually happened. Dean and Sam were out there fighting monsters and protecting people like her who didn’t know any better. And Hazel was dealing cards at a second-rate casino in the middle of the desert. It felt pathetic.
I’m not a fighter like they are, she thought as she stepped into the spray of hot water and quickly washed the grim of the day out of her hair. She thought about her time in the bunker and her conversations with Crowley. She thought about Crowley every day, actually. She felt grief over his death and incredulity that after everything he’d said about how he didn’t know how to be the hero that in the end a hero was exactly what he was. Well, the Winchesters didn’t feel that way, but she did. She wouldn’t be wrapping herself in a fluffy towel and preparing to sit down to a microwaved dinner if he hadn’t sacrificed himself.
After Dean and Sam found her on the road, they had put her in their car and drove back to the bunker. No one was there when they pulled up. The bunker was wide open and they easily searched and cleared the inside. There had been damage from Abbadon, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. While Dean hung the door, Hazel told them everything that had happened from the moment she heard the noises in the bunker to running away after the demon had stabbed Crowley. They both seemed as confused as her on Crowley’s motivations, but they seemed to take it in stride.
The next two days were spent gathering intel to sort out exactly what happened. No one really knew, but Abbadon seemed to be busy fighting a war within Hell. Without the key, it was decided that Hazel was safe from attack. She was promptly driven to Albuquerque and dropped off at her house. Before they left, though, Dean and Sam scoured her place and drew Devil’s Traps on the floor beneath her area rug in the bedroom and on the ceiling above the door. Hazel had no idea how she’d explain it to the landlord, but she’d rather be safe than sorry.
They left her with a duffle bag of hunter tools, a jug of holy water, instructions for protecting herself from demons, and their cell phone numbers. The first few weeks she spent walking on egg shells, always worried that she’d turn around and found a black-eyed person standing there waiting to shove a knife into her chest. But it had been almost six months and she was getting used to her boring life again. No scary monsters in the dark and no one trying to kill her. No one cared enough about her.
Hazel put on a old pair of pajamas and ate dinner. Instead of writing like she tried to do after work, she curled up on the couch with a book. She stared at the cover. It was the new Stephen King novel. She’d checked it out from the library last weekend and needed to return it soon. It made her think of HIM. Crowley. Always Crowley.
A month ago the barista at a coffee shop she liked to stop at on her way to work had asked her out. He seemed shy and sweet. They had a few things in common. But after two dates, she had stopped returning his calls. He didn’t compare. And her life was in a sad state if she was comparing possible boyfriends to a demon who had died six months ago. Died saving her, but died nonetheless.
She looked down at the cover of the book and watched a drop of water fall onto it. It took Hazel a moment to realize the water was a tear that had fallen from her eye. She blinked and a second fell. Work was unrewarding. Life was lonely. She felt like she should be doing something more with herself, but didn’t know what. And she was sure she’d be alone for the rest of her days since there was no way that any man could be as dynamic and alluring as the demon who had stolen in heart in such a bizarre way.
Hazel sniffed and leaned over to pick up a small shoe box on the end table. Feeling so lonely made her think of her brother and the box contained his suicide note and a couple of his belongings. Hank hadn’t been a religious person, but he’d always worn a gold cross that had belonged to their mother. Hazel remembered her dad giving it to Hank on his fifteenth birthday. He hadn’t taken it off since then, not even when he’d jumped. The simple gold cross and Hank’s wallet had been the only possessions she’d picked up from the coroner’s office in Taos after she’d identified the body.
She draped the necklace over her hand and let the low light from the lamp beside her glint off the gold. Life was lonely without Hank. Without her dad. Without someone to share it with. She’d never been very good at keeping friends, but after Hank’s death she’d shut down on everyone, effectively cutting herself off from everyone. Better that than to loose someone again. The only person she’d opened up to at all was Crowley, but he was gone too. Lesson learned; they always leave.
Hazel sighed and closed her hand around the cross, squeezing it tight. And she squeezed her eyes shut just as tight, letting the unshed tears in them roll down her cheeks.
“Hazy?”
The voice made her heart jump up into her throat. She snapped her eyes open and saw him. His color was muted--grey-tinged skin and clothing like there was a pallor over him. She recognized the dark green T-shirt with the rip up the side and the worn jeans with a hole in the left knee and a rip up to right leg. They were the clothes he’d been wearing when he’d jumped.
“Hazy, is that you? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and stood up. He and dad had always called her Hazy. She’d hated it, but now that they hadn’t been around to tease her, Hazel found that she missed hearing it. “Hank, what are you... How?”
“Pretty sure I’m ghosting around, Hazy. I... I don’t know what the hell is going on.” He smiled and looked down at the floor.
She moved around the coffee table and walked up to throw her arms around him. Her body slipped right through the air where he was standing, finding no purchase anywhere. When she turned around he was standing there with his arms out like he’d meant to embrace her too.
“Apparently, ghosts can’t touch shit. I keep forgetting.”
“How are you here? Have you been here all along?”
Hank shook his head. “No. Time is weird, so I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I think I’m breaking the rules. This guy told me that I had a first class ticket to heaven, but I kinda diverted myself here. I was looking for you.”
“Wait, what?”
“I’m sorry, Hazy. I shouldn’t have left you. Are you doing okay?”
She felt the tears rolling down her cheeks again. “Yeah, Hank. I’m doing okay. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. I don’t think I have much time.” He shifted and it looked like he was a hologram that flickered.
“Have you been roaming around looking for me since... since you jumped?”
“Nah, I was a shitty person. Selfish and crap. I got sent to Hell.”
Hazel’s heart felt so heavy, so sad. “Hank, you don’t deserve that.”
“Yeah, well, some dude showed up while I’m getting the full treatment--torture and all that shit. And he says there was a mistake and I have to go to Heaven.”
“What dude?”
“Some dude in a black suit. English accent. Weird guy. Kinda scary.” Hank shrugged. “And then next thing I know I’m back underneath the bridge, standing on a rock in the middle of the water and there’s this light that is drawing me up. Except I don’t let it. I ran.”
“Hank, you should have gone.”
“I wanted to see you, Hazy. I miss you so much. I fucked up so bad. Are you really okay?”
She reached out a hand and it went right through his chest. Hazel smothered a sob. “Yeah, Hank, I’m really okay. I wish you wouldn’t have left, but I don’t blame you. It’s okay. You can go.”
He flickered again as he looked up at the ceiling. “I think my time is up. I... I love you, Hazy.”
A sob escaped her mouth when she opened it and said, “I love you, too, Hank. Be good.”
He smiled. “I’ll try, big sis.”
And then he was gone. She was just staring at the bookshelf that he’d been in front of. Hazel collapsed onto the floor and covered her face, crying into her hands. She remained like that for what felt like hours, but was likely only minutes. All the old grief of losing Hank seemed fresh again. But this time she at least got to say a proper goodbye and tell him she loved him.
It was three-fifty-seven when she picked up her cell and dialed Sam’s number. When he didn’t answer, she dialed Dean. After three long rings, he picked up, his voice sleepy. “Hazel, you okay?”
“Is Crowley alive?” she asked. Hank had told him a man with an accent in a black suit sent him out of Hell. There was only one demon she knew who had that power and knew who Hank was.
“What?” Dean asked. “Is he threatening you?”
“No. Is he alive?” she asked.
She heard the bed squeak as he sat up. “Why?”
“Because I think he just did a me solid. And because I thought he was dead. I saw him get stabbed, Dean.”
“What did he do?” Dean asked.
“He pulled my brother out of Hell and sent him to Heaven. I just got a ghostly visitation. So, he’s really alive?”
Dean sighed. “Well, uh, Sammy and I picked up a demon a few months back when we were looking for a buddy of ours. According to him, Crowley survived and has been battling Abbadon for power in Hell. Not that I like either of them, but it’s kinda nice having them keeping each other busy.”
Hazel felt like she’d gotten the wind knocked out of her. She opened her mouth, but found it difficult to breathe. She hadn’t really expected Dean to admit to Crowley being alive. She thought there was some other explanation for her brother’s visit. “He’s...”
“Hey, if we thought you were in any trouble, we would have said something. He hasn’t been stalking you, right?”
“No.” She felt numb, confused. “No, I haven’t seen him.”
“Well, don’t go looking for him. He’s...”
“Bad. I know. You keep telling me this.”
“Look, I know he saved your ass a few months back, but you have to understand that Crowley never does anything unless he can benefit from it. He escaped and according to the douche we talked to, he’s winning the war with Abbadon.”
“Yeah,” Hazel said, sitting down on the couch. She felt drained, zapped of all energy. Her world had been turned upside down one too many times in the past year.
“You call if you need anything, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Hazel, promise me you won’t go looking for him.”
“I promise. I won’t go looking for him.” And it was the honest truth. Because just as she said goodbye and hung with Dean with, she realized that Crowley had never come looking for her either. She was just where he’d found her--dealing blackjack and assuaging her loneliness with her writing late at night.
He’d gone out of his way to pull her brother out of hell. She knew he was the only one who could have done it. Although, him not trying to seek her out when he survived made her wonder why he bothered to do her the favor since he obviously didn’t care that much. Maybe it was just his way to balancing the scales. She’d helped him escape in that series of events that had almost gotten her killed. Perhaps he just wanted to give her a proverbial nod of thanks.
She shuffled into the kitchen and found a bottle of Kentucky bourbon in the cabinet behind a box of pasta and a few cans of peaches. She poured a shot of it in a squat glass from the shelf over the sink and knocked it back. It burned going down, settling like fire in her stomach. Before she could rethink her actions, she poured another shot and downed it quickly. Maybe it would help her sleep through the night after the trauma of seeing Hank and the heartache of knowing Crowley didn’t give a shit about her.
***********************************
Crowley felt smug, knowing that he was winning. Abbadon liked to call it a war, but it was more like a campaign. Brute force and chaos really only gets you so far. Even demons like to have some sort of security, knowing where they stand and what they can expect if they behave themselves. She was on the run and had few supporters left. And he was back in his position of power, minions surrounding him to do his bidding.
It was what he’d wanted and what he’d been working toward for months. It was just a matter of time before he could imprison Abbadon and have her killed. He just needed to find a way to kill her. The First Blade would be needed, but getting it was trickier than devising a way to imprison Abbadon. Prison was doable; the First Blade was simply out of his reach since it would require the Mark of Cain.
He walked into his study and found a woman kneeling in the floor in front of his desk, her hands behind her back and her chest pushed out for his perusal. She wore not a stitch of clothing. And while the old Crowley would have dominated her, chained her to the wall and whipped her until she cried out and begged to be fucked, he just felt his stomach turn.
“Get out,” he told her.
“But, master,” she said, opening her eyes.
“Out!” he screamed, pointing at the door. She made him sick. All of them made him sick. She stood and hurried out of the room, not looking back at him. If she had, he likely would have decapitated her. Useless demon bitch trying to persuade some favor from him.
Crowley collapsed into his black leather desk chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hazel. He couldn’t get her out of his head. He’d done everything he could to return his world to normal. He’d tortured a few demons and killed a few more in the push against Abbadon and her pathetic followers. He’d made a few deals and collected a few more souls just like old times, back when things were easy. Back when everything was black and white and he always chose black. Now it was all a swirling fucking canvas of grey.
The look on her face when he’d been stabbed... It haunted him. She’d actually cared enough to be upset--even hurt--at his loss. At the time he hadn’t thought much of it since he was too worried about his own skin. When that lowly minion of Abbadon had shoved the blade into his belly, he’d thought he was done for. The pain had been excruciating and overwhelming. It wasn’t until after Hazel had scrambled up the side of the hill over the bunker and the knife came out of his gut that he realized something was wrong. Or right, as luck would have it. He should have been on the ground, dead and gone, but he was still upright, clutching his stomach. The wound glowed hot red as he stepped back.
He’d faintly heard Abbadon curse out some frustration, but his hearing was impaired; he could only hear a roaring sound like the most vast ocean crashing over his head. He blinked and he was back home, collapsing on the floor of his study, confused over what had happened and why he was still alive. Was it the blood?
As it turned out, it wasn’t. It was the key. He’d never carried the thing around because it was too dangerous; it put a target on his back. If he’d known it would protect him, then he would have considered toting it around all the time. Sure, he could be killed, even with the key, but it was much harder. He’d learned as much while researching as he put things in Hell in order.
Crowley closed his eyes and let the heartache wash over him. Somewhere out there Hazel was sleeping or eating or dealing cards. He’d sent a minion to check on her once he’d regained his strength. The Winchesters had returned her to Albuquerque and left her there, right where they had found her. Crowley killed the minion once he returned from the mission. He didn’t want anyone knowing Hazel was anything to him. If someone knew, then she could be a bargaining chip. Abbadon knew, but she had bigger problems right now. Namely, him.
So, Hazel was safe for the moment. It should have felt good, but it didn’t. He wanted to see her, touch her. It was a selfish desire because entering her life again would only put her in danger. But he was nothing if not selfish, right?