Filled: Reverse Weave 1/1
anonymous
May 5 2014, 14:58:14 UTC
Crowley's different, you can tell--but not by much. Whatever's twisted up and bent inside of him hides its damage, and if his dramatic builds are slower, the results more meditated, his words lose none of their vitriol.
"Kevin?" he says, as though he barely remembers the name. As though Kevin Tran is, in his insignificant, tortured way, out of sight and out of mind. As though Kevin is the way he was to you a lot of the time, if you're gonna be honest.
And you may as well be honest.
"God made his children equal in his eyes," Crowley meanders. "But not in mine."
Last time Crowley found your name in Hell's docket, they'd barely taken you for Sam (and what is Sam really, if not You Lite, Dean. Or Azazel's prince. Or Lucifer. Or Ezekiel. Or a soulless husk. Anything that is not your brother, and never a person at all). What makes you think, he asks, all breath and guttural glory, that Dean Winchester would be worth a Prophet of the Lord?
You have nothing, Dean. You are nothing. Just a few loose ends, waiting to be sewn into a new scarecrow.
"I have you," you say, though at the back of your mind you know that like everything else you've ever put a value to--family, goodness, your fucking morals--you know that the way the world is now, Crowley's worth is rapidly depreciating.
"You have me," Crowley allows. "Sad little king of a sad little hill, I think is what the hellspawn are calling my... position these days."
It's more honest than you've ever known him to be, but maybe he just looks different now, from the other side of a point of no return. Goddamn it.
"The lone king and his Tonto. You know, I've never really had a clever moniker for you, Dean. Not one that stuck. I could never tell whether I respected you--or I just didn't give a damn, one way or the other. Moose and I, on the other hand--"
"I definitely don't respect you," you offer. You're not ready to fucking cry in front of fucking Crowley because you gave your fucking brother to a fucking fucker of a fucked up angel.
Crowley shifts in his bonds and steel creaks against bone. "Humanity's correlation of respect and partnership is so very antiquated. But I'm rather fond of principles, foreign as that may be to you:
"No deal."
It's Crowley who asks you to stop. He doesn't beg, but he rushes the delivery. It's a panicked kind of ask. The only damn one who asks you to stop, and it's Crowley. Maybe he speaks because he knows that you won't listen. (But maybe not. He is very honestly persistent.)
"This is Moose we're talking about--Sam," he corrects. "Sammy. You know, the tall one-"
Still, you know better now. This is the last of many bridges you've been burning. You feel the blade in your hand and steadily you raise it and you walk yourself over that one last bridge and you don't need a match because it's you who's on fire, all straw and patchwork. No, you are fire. You are fire. And you say, "No deal."
Until the moment he ends, Sam never stops loving you.
Crowley's different, you can tell--but not by much. Whatever's twisted up and bent inside of him hides its damage, and if his dramatic builds are slower, the results more meditated, his words lose none of their vitriol.
"Kevin?" he says, as though he barely remembers the name. As though Kevin Tran is, in his insignificant, tortured way, out of sight and out of mind. As though Kevin is the way he was to you a lot of the time, if you're gonna be honest.
And you may as well be honest.
"God made his children equal in his eyes," Crowley meanders. "But not in mine."
Last time Crowley found your name in Hell's docket, they'd barely taken you for Sam (and what is Sam really, if not You Lite, Dean. Or Azazel's prince. Or Lucifer. Or Ezekiel. Or a soulless husk. Anything that is not your brother, and never a person at all). What makes you think, he asks, all breath and guttural glory, that Dean Winchester would be worth a Prophet of the Lord?
You have nothing, Dean. You are nothing. Just a few loose ends, waiting to be sewn into a new scarecrow.
"I have you," you say, though at the back of your mind you know that like everything else you've ever put a value to--family, goodness, your fucking morals--you know that the way the world is now, Crowley's worth is rapidly depreciating.
"You have me," Crowley allows. "Sad little king of a sad little hill, I think is what the hellspawn are calling my... position these days."
It's more honest than you've ever known him to be, but maybe he just looks different now, from the other side of a point of no return. Goddamn it.
"The lone king and his Tonto. You know, I've never really had a clever moniker for you, Dean. Not one that stuck. I could never tell whether I respected you--or I just didn't give a damn, one way or the other. Moose and I, on the other hand--"
"I definitely don't respect you," you offer. You're not ready to fucking cry in front of fucking Crowley because you gave your fucking brother to a fucking fucker of a fucked up angel.
Crowley shifts in his bonds and steel creaks against bone. "Humanity's correlation of respect and partnership is so very antiquated. But I'm rather fond of principles, foreign as that may be to you:
"No deal."
It's Crowley who asks you to stop. He doesn't beg, but he rushes the delivery. It's a panicked kind of ask. The only damn one who asks you to stop, and it's Crowley. Maybe he speaks because he knows that you won't listen. (But maybe not. He is very honestly persistent.)
"This is Moose we're talking about--Sam," he corrects. "Sammy. You know, the tall one-"
Still, you know better now. This is the last of many bridges you've been burning. You feel the blade in your hand and steadily you raise it and you walk yourself over that one last bridge and you don't need a match because it's you who's on fire, all straw and patchwork. No, you are fire. You are fire. And you say, "No deal."
Until the moment he ends, Sam never stops loving you.
You're not sure what to do with that.
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