Fic: The Width of a Circle
Title: The Width of a Circle
Fandom: Supernatural/Good Omens
Pairing: Genirific.
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1539 words.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Demon-summoning: not as easy as you'd think.
Notes: This ficlet is so old. I don't even know if it makes sense anymore, but at least it's done? Set at the tail-end of S4 of SPN, and a while after the events of Good Omens.
One moment he's convincing Aziraphale that Wimbledon isn't his fault entirely, (to which the angel had said, "Yes, well, clay courts are obviously something you would be proud of, my dear") and the next he's watching that horrendous tweed jacket fuzz up more than usual as things quickly fade into a disconcerting reddish haze.
Bugger, Crowley thinks distractedly, because it's quite hard to focus when you're suddenly being grabbed by iron-handed existential forces and shaken about like a rag doll.
---
Sam says, slowly, "Dean, he's got--"
Dean says, "I know!"
They've got the demon in the basement of an abandoned warehouse somewhere, and his high-end demon-chic sunglasses are casting two-inch shadows innocently on the floor where Dean had knocked them from his face with a well-placed fist. The demon's wearing a suit jacket and an expensive-looking wristwatch with a hell of a lot of hands and a slightly rumpled tie and and Sam happens to notice right away that he doesn't blink much. Upon closer inspection, there seem to be no whites to his eyes. Mostly because they're entirely yellow.
"Ow," the demon says, testing his jaw.
At this point, Sam's not really inclined to feel sympathetic.
He and Dean both are running on coffee and burger grease, cheap beer and suicide soda mixes, headaches pounding their skulls. The circles under Dean's eyes are beginning to look a lot like shiners. They've been on the pain payroll for most of their lives, but now it seems to be catching up to them, and fast.
Dean circles the Devil's Trap. He's walking like a predator, loping wolfish gait and all. Sam just stands there warily, watches as the demon raises an eyebrow, his eyes flickering to the seance just outside the large sigil. The candlelight catches fire to the sharp planes of all of their faces and puts them at serious risk of over-dramatising the entire scene.
"Was this," the demon motions to the circle. "really necessary?"
Sam shares a significant look with Dean, who's gaze switches back and forth from Sam to the demon frequently enough to give anyone vertigo. It's got a funny accent, or the vessel does, or whatever. British, or something. Sam's eyes narrow on reflex; the memories of Bela immediately surface, as well as residual pain from that special time when she shot him in the shoulder, but he's willing to give this demon the benefit of the doubt. At least, while he's completely under trap lock and key.
Dean's got a hip flask of holy water in his jacket pocket. He removes it, twists the cap. The demon is looking pointedly at his sunglasses, lying outside the Devil's Trap by about a foot. He says, when neither Sam nor Dean answer him, "Look, I really ought to be on my way. Places to be, people to tempt."
"You ain't going nowhere," says Dean reflexively, coming to pace around the circle again, jabbing a finger threateningly in the demon's general direction. "You're gonna tell us exactly what we want to hear."
"Right." The demon motions at his surroundings vaguely. Bored. "Go." He mirrors Dean, begins to pace, in little circles, widening until he's skirting the edge of the Devil's Trap by an inch or so, polished shoes looking abnormally bright in the dank atmosphere. Dean and Sam eye him apprehensively.
Sam frowns. He and Dean share another look.
The demon looks back and forth between them. "What?"
"You're not going to put up a fight?"
He blinks. The first time in five minutes. "No?"
This is. Well, this is really not going how Sam had expected it to go.
"And we're just supposed to trust your word from the get-go?" Sam asks in disbelief.
"Look, buddy, you're really starting to wear on my nerves," Dean cuts in.
The demon smiles pleasantly, in the sort of way that may or may not send small children running.
Dean looks at Sam and then back to their prisoner with a mouth set into a hard line, and says, "I'm Dean. This is Sam. Winchester. You know, hunters. Scourges of the demon underworld, you guys try and serve us up on a platter every chance you get?"
"Oh," says Crowley, smile dropping right off his face. "Well. That's. Er. I probably ought to let you know that there's lot of people really angry at you."
-----
"So we're just going to leave him down there?"
"No, I was thinking I'd give him a tour," Dean says. "He's still a demon, Sam! C'mon!"
"Listen, I don't think it's..." Sam says. Shakes his head. "But the yellow eyes -- I mean, aside from them he doesn't seem all that dangerous."
Dean stares at him. "Are you kidding me?"
"All I'm saying is that it just doesn't seem like he's the guy we tried to summon."
"So you're saying we've snagged Expendable Crewdemon number triple-six instead?" Dean snorts. "Not buying it."
"We haven't exactly done this rite before, Dean. Maybe the spell wasn't specific enough -- it just went looking for the first demon on earth instead of the most powerful one, like that somehow equates, or something." Sam acquires the pensive thinking face that Dean's so familiar with. "In the bible, it mentions a serpent. The most cunning of all of the beasts God created or whatever. The Bible's been through so many revisions that it's impossible to tell -- and I don't think a big player would really place himself on the earth so early in the creation story, right?"
"Unless he wanted a giant can of holy whoop-ass, made to order," Dean says tiredly. "All right. Okay, then. Assuming it's not Satan, that explains the freaky-ass eyes. So, assuming you're right and the whole creation story bullshit is true, we've got a different demon. Now what? Which one?"
"Uh," Sam explains helpfully. "No idea. But he hasn't tried to kill us. He hasn't even tried anything. Most demons would be writing 'the Winchesters made fun of me today' their diaries by now."
"Yeah, and the second we let him go is the second he jumps us," Dean mutters. "You said it yourself. Most cunning of all Daddy Devil's little kids and all that. Man, who is this guy?"
They sit in silence for a full second before Sam dares to say, "I can stop him." His fingers flex. "If he tries anything--"
"No," Dean bites out. "No, you are sure as hell not doing any of that. I won't have it."
"But--"
"No!"
There's a heavy pause.
"Erm," says Crowley from the door.
"Oh shit!" Dean jumps about a foot in the air and draws the gun in his coat pocket in about a second. Sam's got his hand out, fingers bent a little at the knuckles, and when Crowley doesn't even so much as take a step towards them Dean takes the opportunity glare at Sam.
Crowley waggles his own fingers. He's rescued the sunglasses; there's not a scratch on them. "Houdini."
"Get back," Dean says, immediately moving lightning-fast to get between Crowley and Sam.
Sam's gaze darts back and forth -- and tentatively, he lowers his hand.
"Dean, he's not going to hurt us."
"Wouldn't dare," Crowley says. "I do have a job, you know. General chaos to incite, that sort of thing. Not really in the 'disemboweling hunters' business, more of the 'avoiding hunters' business. You don't mind if I just..."
"How'd you get out?" Dean barks. "Now way you could've. I made that Trap myself."
Sam stares. "The real question is why you stayed in, when you could get out all along?"
Crowley shrugs. "I was interested."
"Dean, look, if he was going to hurt us, he would've already. He's... he seems pretty powerful. Maybe we don't have to try and force anything out of him."
"Please, no forcing," Crowley adds hurriedly.
"Shut up," Dean snaps. "I don't trust him."
Crowley shrugs, turns. "Well, in that case. Been fun. Ciao."
"Wait!" Sam shouts. Then calms. "Wait. Let's just... talk for minute."
------
"Sorry about earlier, and everything. But, we figure, since you're here, now we know who -- well, we need your help."
Crowley snorts, and takes a generous sip of the wine that had suddenly found itself occupying the beer bottle Dean had handed him. They're in a motel somewhere, in dirty rural America, and it smells like moldy sheets and stale sub sandwiches and something really offensive that Crowley just doesn't want to put a name to. He's been hankering for something citrus since he stepped foot in the dingy, salt-smelling Trapped basement. He'd even settle for a few scented candles. Or a match.
Dean makes a thanks a bunch noise. Crowley makes one right back at him.
"It's," Sam says slowly, "important."
"Yeah, End-of-the-World important," Dean snaps.
Crowley stops, peers at them both over the rim of his bottle, taking in their completely serious faces and the way Sam says 'Apocalypse' like it's meant for five-year-old ears. Then he slowly brings a hand up to his face and lets his forehead drop into it, stifling slightly hysterical chuckles until Sam asks what's up and he says, oh, nothing, nothing, and then laughing, calls Aziraphale on the phone on the bedside table.
Fandom: Supernatural/Good Omens
Pairing: Genirific.
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1539 words.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Demon-summoning: not as easy as you'd think.
Notes: This ficlet is so old. I don't even know if it makes sense anymore, but at least it's done? Set at the tail-end of S4 of SPN, and a while after the events of Good Omens.
One moment he's convincing Aziraphale that Wimbledon isn't his fault entirely, (to which the angel had said, "Yes, well, clay courts are obviously something you would be proud of, my dear") and the next he's watching that horrendous tweed jacket fuzz up more than usual as things quickly fade into a disconcerting reddish haze.
Bugger, Crowley thinks distractedly, because it's quite hard to focus when you're suddenly being grabbed by iron-handed existential forces and shaken about like a rag doll.
---
Sam says, slowly, "Dean, he's got--"
Dean says, "I know!"
They've got the demon in the basement of an abandoned warehouse somewhere, and his high-end demon-chic sunglasses are casting two-inch shadows innocently on the floor where Dean had knocked them from his face with a well-placed fist. The demon's wearing a suit jacket and an expensive-looking wristwatch with a hell of a lot of hands and a slightly rumpled tie and and Sam happens to notice right away that he doesn't blink much. Upon closer inspection, there seem to be no whites to his eyes. Mostly because they're entirely yellow.
"Ow," the demon says, testing his jaw.
At this point, Sam's not really inclined to feel sympathetic.
He and Dean both are running on coffee and burger grease, cheap beer and suicide soda mixes, headaches pounding their skulls. The circles under Dean's eyes are beginning to look a lot like shiners. They've been on the pain payroll for most of their lives, but now it seems to be catching up to them, and fast.
Dean circles the Devil's Trap. He's walking like a predator, loping wolfish gait and all. Sam just stands there warily, watches as the demon raises an eyebrow, his eyes flickering to the seance just outside the large sigil. The candlelight catches fire to the sharp planes of all of their faces and puts them at serious risk of over-dramatising the entire scene.
"Was this," the demon motions to the circle. "really necessary?"
Sam shares a significant look with Dean, who's gaze switches back and forth from Sam to the demon frequently enough to give anyone vertigo. It's got a funny accent, or the vessel does, or whatever. British, or something. Sam's eyes narrow on reflex; the memories of Bela immediately surface, as well as residual pain from that special time when she shot him in the shoulder, but he's willing to give this demon the benefit of the doubt. At least, while he's completely under trap lock and key.
Dean's got a hip flask of holy water in his jacket pocket. He removes it, twists the cap. The demon is looking pointedly at his sunglasses, lying outside the Devil's Trap by about a foot. He says, when neither Sam nor Dean answer him, "Look, I really ought to be on my way. Places to be, people to tempt."
"You ain't going nowhere," says Dean reflexively, coming to pace around the circle again, jabbing a finger threateningly in the demon's general direction. "You're gonna tell us exactly what we want to hear."
"Right." The demon motions at his surroundings vaguely. Bored. "Go." He mirrors Dean, begins to pace, in little circles, widening until he's skirting the edge of the Devil's Trap by an inch or so, polished shoes looking abnormally bright in the dank atmosphere. Dean and Sam eye him apprehensively.
Sam frowns. He and Dean share another look.
The demon looks back and forth between them. "What?"
"You're not going to put up a fight?"
He blinks. The first time in five minutes. "No?"
This is. Well, this is really not going how Sam had expected it to go.
"And we're just supposed to trust your word from the get-go?" Sam asks in disbelief.
"Look, buddy, you're really starting to wear on my nerves," Dean cuts in.
The demon smiles pleasantly, in the sort of way that may or may not send small children running.
Dean looks at Sam and then back to their prisoner with a mouth set into a hard line, and says, "I'm Dean. This is Sam. Winchester. You know, hunters. Scourges of the demon underworld, you guys try and serve us up on a platter every chance you get?"
"Oh," says Crowley, smile dropping right off his face. "Well. That's. Er. I probably ought to let you know that there's lot of people really angry at you."
-----
"So we're just going to leave him down there?"
"No, I was thinking I'd give him a tour," Dean says. "He's still a demon, Sam! C'mon!"
"Listen, I don't think it's..." Sam says. Shakes his head. "But the yellow eyes -- I mean, aside from them he doesn't seem all that dangerous."
Dean stares at him. "Are you kidding me?"
"All I'm saying is that it just doesn't seem like he's the guy we tried to summon."
"So you're saying we've snagged Expendable Crewdemon number triple-six instead?" Dean snorts. "Not buying it."
"We haven't exactly done this rite before, Dean. Maybe the spell wasn't specific enough -- it just went looking for the first demon on earth instead of the most powerful one, like that somehow equates, or something." Sam acquires the pensive thinking face that Dean's so familiar with. "In the bible, it mentions a serpent. The most cunning of all of the beasts God created or whatever. The Bible's been through so many revisions that it's impossible to tell -- and I don't think a big player would really place himself on the earth so early in the creation story, right?"
"Unless he wanted a giant can of holy whoop-ass, made to order," Dean says tiredly. "All right. Okay, then. Assuming it's not Satan, that explains the freaky-ass eyes. So, assuming you're right and the whole creation story bullshit is true, we've got a different demon. Now what? Which one?"
"Uh," Sam explains helpfully. "No idea. But he hasn't tried to kill us. He hasn't even tried anything. Most demons would be writing 'the Winchesters made fun of me today' their diaries by now."
"Yeah, and the second we let him go is the second he jumps us," Dean mutters. "You said it yourself. Most cunning of all Daddy Devil's little kids and all that. Man, who is this guy?"
They sit in silence for a full second before Sam dares to say, "I can stop him." His fingers flex. "If he tries anything--"
"No," Dean bites out. "No, you are sure as hell not doing any of that. I won't have it."
"But--"
"No!"
There's a heavy pause.
"Erm," says Crowley from the door.
"Oh shit!" Dean jumps about a foot in the air and draws the gun in his coat pocket in about a second. Sam's got his hand out, fingers bent a little at the knuckles, and when Crowley doesn't even so much as take a step towards them Dean takes the opportunity glare at Sam.
Crowley waggles his own fingers. He's rescued the sunglasses; there's not a scratch on them. "Houdini."
"Get back," Dean says, immediately moving lightning-fast to get between Crowley and Sam.
Sam's gaze darts back and forth -- and tentatively, he lowers his hand.
"Dean, he's not going to hurt us."
"Wouldn't dare," Crowley says. "I do have a job, you know. General chaos to incite, that sort of thing. Not really in the 'disemboweling hunters' business, more of the 'avoiding hunters' business. You don't mind if I just..."
"How'd you get out?" Dean barks. "Now way you could've. I made that Trap myself."
Sam stares. "The real question is why you stayed in, when you could get out all along?"
Crowley shrugs. "I was interested."
"Dean, look, if he was going to hurt us, he would've already. He's... he seems pretty powerful. Maybe we don't have to try and force anything out of him."
"Please, no forcing," Crowley adds hurriedly.
"Shut up," Dean snaps. "I don't trust him."
Crowley shrugs, turns. "Well, in that case. Been fun. Ciao."
"Wait!" Sam shouts. Then calms. "Wait. Let's just... talk for minute."
------
"Sorry about earlier, and everything. But, we figure, since you're here, now we know who -- well, we need your help."
Crowley snorts, and takes a generous sip of the wine that had suddenly found itself occupying the beer bottle Dean had handed him. They're in a motel somewhere, in dirty rural America, and it smells like moldy sheets and stale sub sandwiches and something really offensive that Crowley just doesn't want to put a name to. He's been hankering for something citrus since he stepped foot in the dingy, salt-smelling Trapped basement. He'd even settle for a few scented candles. Or a match.
Dean makes a thanks a bunch noise. Crowley makes one right back at him.
"It's," Sam says slowly, "important."
"Yeah, End-of-the-World important," Dean snaps.
Crowley stops, peers at them both over the rim of his bottle, taking in their completely serious faces and the way Sam says 'Apocalypse' like it's meant for five-year-old ears. Then he slowly brings a hand up to his face and lets his forehead drop into it, stifling slightly hysterical chuckles until Sam asks what's up and he says, oh, nothing, nothing, and then laughing, calls Aziraphale on the phone on the bedside table.