Supernatural: Gen
Title: The Art of the Deal
Beta: elusive_life_77 - any further mistakes are my own
Fandom: Supernatural (Pre-Series)
Pairing: None. Gen, Crowley-centric.
Rating: PG-13 or a very soft R
Disclaimer: I don’t claim anything. Please don’t sue me.
Warnings: Language, violence, terrible references as per usual
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 7,272
Summary: There is no business quite like soul-stealing. However, whether it’s climbing the corporate ladder or dealing with mortal ingrates, Crowley is keeping it classy.
AN: Written for the spn_reversebang prompt: "Crowley and his 'deal-making'. Go." I was a little iffy about being a pinch-hitter with my RL situation, but as soon as I saw mizra's art, I knew I would have to go for it. elusive_life_77 was a champion and totally turned this fic out for me in record time. With our powers combined... I think this came out to be a pretty decent fic. I can't thank them enough.
All art is done by mizra and all comments regarding it should be directed to her art post here!
Taking the final step to becoming a demon was, quite literally, a shock to the system. While being dragged to Hell wasn’t exactly peaches and cream, there was nothing in his existence, before or after he was technically living, to prepare him for that particular metaphysical agony. Of course, when it came to genuine art of inventive, forceful persuasion, the Cult of Eternal Damnation featured only the cream of the crop. After being yanked from the frayed ribbons of his body and worked over by Hell’s Finest (most probably ditch-diggers and jilted women in life) for what seemed like twice the time he had spent in actual meat, Fergus was ready to prostrate himself before the Devil himself, if it meant a pint of lukewarm rotgut. Getting a membership jacket seemed like the permanent reprieve.
He did what he had to, to whomever he had to, and helped strip himself bare. When there was almost nothing left, the soul of Fergus McLeod unraveled. He doesn’t remember quite how they put him back together after he was unmade, only that the breath of life was fire and brimstone. Hate was like hot, liquid metal, poured in and in until all the gaps were sealed, until he was filled to the brim and overflowing. Out of the eternal flame, he was born again, a new creature built around the scraps of another. Hell had successfully retailored the tailor, so to speak. Of course it was only right, then, to take a new name.
Every day after that was a summer Scotland could never give him. Each calendar date marked another chance to give the Devil his due. Crowley, full of flame and promise, would indeed prove to be a demon that managed to break the mold in latter days.
Still, for the lion’s share of the first few centuries after his rebirth, he couldn’t stop spitting fire.
Contrary to popular belief, not everyone in Hell knows what they’re doing.
For the most part, demons are just a leaderless army stockpiling ammunition for a war that could come either sooner or later. No one really knows the details, but then, no one really cares either. Creatures twisted by wrath and self-interest don’t really need a reason to fight. While the general stock might be nursed by thoughts of a greater cause and distracted by the Pit’s many outlets for finagling, any demon worth their sulfur knows that the real game in Hell is gaining power. Pain is the coin of the realm, because when it all boils down to it, the only real ranking among demons lies in who can hurt who the most. Good old Fergus had granted Crowley the advantage: he recognized the pissing contest instantaneously and started adding his inches early.
Hell is a very large place under constant renovation and Crowley is a good few decades into the game before he even hears about Lilith. It takes another decade before he actually meets her. She’d taken a break from her own machinations and attended one of the many bloodthirsty demon conventions and oh, she is delightfully hideous. After taking his victory in the arena of flesh and fear, he is invited to her personal box above the rabble. She likes him; then again, he’s heard about her thing for children and his icebreaker after their preliminary greetings is to ask after the progress of a certain Modest Proposal. He’s also a bit drunk on demonic energy at the time.
It is there that Crowley learns that the Big Boss isn’t simply busy, but locked away in solitary and temporarily misplaced. Lilith, and most of the other demons that are released topside, are mostly playing point-men to find Lucifer’s cage, while whispering into the right ears along the way. He learned that, for the most part, Hell claims only a few of history’s bloody wars as its own; it is, ironically, more responsible for infamous writers and talents than it is kings or their downfalls. Sin manages itself.
“We can’t forget men like Fergus, though,” She says, narrowing all six of her age-worn eyes, “So willing to give more for less. It’d be a shame if we left souls like that ready to go back to church the first time their wives so much as coughed fluid.”
And all Crowley had said in return was, “I could have gotten him and his son. For two inches and a jug of scotch.”
A sneer in Hell is just as good as a smile. Lilith laughed, light and breathy, unwavering femininity through all the filth.
“The real challenge is in breaking the righteous man. Man is imperfect and inclined to sin by nature, but there are those who pretend to live above such a manner. Try to do ‘better’, as it were. There is nothing quite so satisfying as tearing that pretense away from them and having them embrace what they were always meant to be. That has always been the belief of our Lord, Lucifer. Heaven weeps in the face of its folly and we grow much stronger for it. Perhaps someday, Crowley, you will know the weight of this truth as well.”
Crowley didn’t say anything, just bowed his head as though grateful to be afforded even a minor tidbit from Hell’s First. He may be full of fire then (quite literally), but he plans to live for a long while yet, maybe even one day escape the Inferno. They both know that Lilith has the power to get him there, and that it’s in his best interest to stay in her favor.
Before she left, she kissed his cheek and it was not unlike being stabbed with hot iron. By some miracle, Crowley did not flinch, even when her long talons brushed along the underside of his jaw in a perfect show of a friendly threat. She could obliterate him as easily as she could bat an eye.
“Don’t die too soon, Crowley.”
Hunters start becoming a real problem in the nineteenth century. There really is a Van Helsing. But more than that, there are clans in his ancestral homeland cropping up to find the Unseelie, and men in the New World who learn very quickly that there are more things to fear than a stray red-faced Savage come the dark. Crowley gets his chance then. Not only do demons face the chance of being exorcised or otherwise killed (men in these days are far closer to God and the manner in which demons should be taken care of), but there are more humans to populate and otherwise over-run the Earth. The soul business has upsized and Crowely seizes the opportunity.
He’s never seen the Americas before, but then, he hasn’t seen the sun or the moon in over centuries either. Promotion comes in rites, of course. All it really means, though, is a new set of eyes and a signed note from Mommy Dearest to make the field-trip topside. He’s anchored to the crossroads, most of these coming in the form of some poor, backwoods trail that puts him ankle-deep in mud. It’s still a far cry from what one can step in down in the Pit, though, so he can’t really complain. The leash is long, too, so it isn’t as if he has to linger longer than what the deal requires.
The job, more often than not, requires him to move into town and start the preliminaries that way. No one tells him much at all, but Crowley catches on quick enough.
Lilith was right. There are far too many people willing to make a deal and sign away their soul; they’re just waiting for their benefactor to make it all better.
Crowley’s first is a man named Samuel Brannan. They’re in central California and Crowley has stolen the body of a moderately successful local banker. In Brannan’s shop, the light is growing dim and the man is accounting for his stock when Crowley brushes in after hours. Brannan is a real champ, though- he fetches Crowley tobacco, rolling papers, and whiskey without batting an eye.
When it comes time to pay for the commodities, the demon offers him a handful of gold dust.
After that, it’s all a downhill run. People from all over the world came come flocking to the West for fame and fortune. Crowley sold the tickets, the pans, and the secrets. Of course, it wasn’t his fault if his customers didn’t word their deals properly, if all they asked for was the means to move their families and could only find river rocks at the journey’s end. Debatably, the only kind thing he ever did in those times was to revoke the ten year lease on Brannan. After all, no one forgets their first, and he was well worth his weight in gold. So to speak.
In Pennsylvania, there’s a boy after his own black heart. He’s got a pocketful of nothing and a poor Scottish family. Two dollars a week isn’t enough in those times for cabbage stew, but he’s got a shine in his eye and a bright soul to barter if Crowley can give him a foot in the door. It’s a strange request, but it’s his soul. Crowley likes him, for what it’s worth. He tells him to start in telegrams, and when the time comes, turns the head of a businessman just the right way. He doesn’t bother penning in the ten years. They’ll have drinks at the turn of the century.
Chicago, 1869, he meets a brute of a man at the crossroads and grants him the wish of success in the building industry. It isn’t at all pleasant, mostly because the man slashes his cheek open with a knife when the deal is due to be sealed. Crowley about kills him - the body of the moderately successful corporate salesman is his favorite one yet.
Two years later, the toe of his boot oh-so-clumsily finds a lantern during a stroll through the neighborhood. Chicago burns.
Needless to say, Crowley is a busy, busy boy. It’s only a matter of time before he’s got workers, admirers and enemies alike. He isn’t the King quite yet -that road is still a stretch away, but not so far out of sight; technically the position doesn’t even exist- but there’s certainly nothing wrong with General Manager.
In all respects he’s a new man, his own man... for the most part. The most Fergus could expect from a day was the bit of scotch that came at the end of it, mild weather, and a roll in the hay. Crowley can have breakfast in France and be in New Orleans for lunch. Crowley can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, without fear of consequence or trace of shame. Because Crowley is smart and he’s good at his job; the best, in fact, considering the time (or lack thereof) he’s been given to perfect it. It isn’t as if he’s without a master, or even without peer, but the list of demons he answers to has dramatically shortened in only a handful of decades.
And of course, for Hell, there is no official form of punishment for vice- only failure. There is competition and envy to be had from others, but he’s been clever with his connections. A friend of everyone, and yet, no one all the same. And he’s proved himself to be plenty wicked enough along the way to make anyone think twice of testing his mettle. The world is his oyster, after all, and he loves what it has to offer him-or the closest approximation of love that a demon can feel, anyway. Even if he didn’t like the business of stealing souls (and he does- he bloody well enjoys it because there is something so very addicting in outwitting and coercing mortals out of their souls, or likewise outdoing his associates), he’ll be damned if he’s going to let anyone take that freedom from him.
He has drinks and dinner every so often with the demon that made his own deal. Crowley outranks him now. Once, when he’d had a few and Crowley was recounting his most interesting deals, he told Crowley that he was proud of him. As if he had some claim over even an iota of what Crowley had built for himself. Crowley had simply winked and offered to pour him another so they could toast to it. But it stayed with him, and he didn’t forget; Crowley never missed a beat.
One night, they’re sitting in Crowley’s winter home in Mississippi, some long time before the humans began really clogging it up with their fertilizer and nuclear waste. It’s a nice, cozy sort of cottage just south of the real plantations, and they’re sitting on the porch, smoking cigars. It’s peaceful- the moon rises over the Gulf and, for at almost mile out, they can see the bottom of the sea like it’s made of rippled glass. At this time of night, there are most undoubtedly sharks sliding through the warm waters. Crowley’s eyes slide to their corners to look at his elder without thought at first, sated by the warm wind blowing in (heat is a must for demons given their natural habitat), and watches the ember at the end of the cigar grow bright on the inhale. All he thinks in that moment is ‘Why not?’ and takes it a step farther. His deal maker burns from the inside out, seizing and managing an inhuman screech even as his meat suit’s eyes blacken, then melt out of their sockets. Crowley looks on, having canted his head just barely to take in the sight as if it’s only a minor spectacle. The wind blows in again and carries the ash away. Crowley takes a thoughtful drag on his own cigar before leaning across and plucking the still-burning stub of his former associate’s stogie off the rocking chair. No sense letting that go to waste, after all, or burning the ebony-wood chair. It’s quiet.
He doesn’t regret it and he never will. No one will question him, either, or even fault him for it. If anything, he’s done a service to his community by weeding out the weak from the strong. It’s disappointing, really. But now there is no evidence of the demon left behind to taint his own name.
Crowley thinks a lot of himself; he’s clever, classy, and charismatic. But he never claimed to be grateful. He may have owed his eventual manifestation to the little pile of ash, but no one said he couldn’t be spiteful about it.
He meets a prospective client in 1941. Just within the last thirty years, Crowley has grown fat with success (figuratively, of course). War has swept its way through most of the planet because no one can seem to keep their nose out of anyone’s business, or else keep from buying help. First along came the whim of a struggle, just a desire to show strength justified by the smallest reason. Bodies filled trenches on either side and the air stank of chlorine. Men pinned down in foxholes clutched one another and prayed for someone, anyone who might help them survive another day. That was really what war amounts to in the demon’s mind. Fear and blood and chaos; a lot like Hell without the flesh wallpapering. In Germany, there’s a little man who spreads his hate under the guise of patriotism and entitlement. It’s a tale as old as time, really, but the extent to which it affects humanity is, quite frankly, much more horrendous and overblown in comparison to anything that came before it. And it will be the most documented as well.
Crowley isn’t responsible for making the deal with the dejected little artist boy, but he knows (and is a bit envious) of the demon that does. He does go to see the marches before the carnage. By this time, his curiosity for people has become much more than a necessity for his profession.
And while the second “World War” has disrupted quite a lot of Crowley’s schedule, it’s a real buyer’s market. He takes a road trip through America, snatching up draft-dodgers where it seems viable. It’s how he ends up in Indiana, in some little town just a nip outside of Richmond. The demon is wearing the meat of a moderately successful attorney at this point, the body he takes right before the moderately successful journalist Sam and Dean will one day meet.
Crowley drives a brand-spanking-new Bentley Mark V into the local mechanic’s garage for a check and a tire replacement. He’s practically burnt the rubber flat on them just driving the beast honestly up from Georgia. It’s a novelty he won’t care much for later, but for now, he’s not unlike a child with a new toy. And he smelled business this way, which was why he didn’t bother replacing the tires himself just yet.
He gets out and has a look around, hands carefully arranging his coat to make sure his suspenders are properly hidden. No one comes springing out of the shop to meet him right away and no one seems to be on the street. Belatedly, he realizes that it’s Sunday afternoon. In all likelihood, a town like this has closed up and moved to the chapel, and he certainly can’t head there, can he? Surely someone must be here, though, if he sensed it.
Inside the shop, he does indeed find his quarry. The human is sitting behind the small wooden counter, a newspaper folded over his hands. He looks up when the door opens, and when Crowley steps in, is quick to rise to his feet. He is the tallest American teenager that the demon has ever seen.
“Good afternoon, sir,” says the young man, closing the paper and tucking it aside. He’s got short black hair, military cut, and green eyes. Firm jaw and shoulders, but too young to be anything less than awkward at his height. Fit, between eighteen and nineteen. Wonderful cannon fodder.
The tag embroidered into his gray coveralls says “Adam”.
“It’s a fine afternoon,” Crowley agrees, the cultured southern drawl of his meat suit filtering through. “Hope I’m not botherin’ ya, son, but I could use some help. Are you all by your lonesome?”
”Today, yes sir,” confirms the youth. He picks up some keys from a nearby rack and discretely takes a look at Crowley from the corner of his eyes. Then he rounds the counter and gestures mildly for the dealmaker to follow him out the door, which he holds, “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Not a lot of trouble, per se. I went and wore the rubber down on my tires, you see, and I’d be obliged if you’d take a look at the engine, too.”
At the mention of tires, Adam hesitates then, explains that the war has limited the import of rubber for tires and only a shop in one of the big cities might have a chance of getting them ordered.
He’d be happy to take a look at the engine for him, though, and fix anything that might need it. Crowley consents-- he’s courteous and understanding-- watching as the young man flips the hood of the Bentley up and runs his hands musingly along the outer edge. It’s obvious from the boy’s reaction that this is probably the first time he’s seen a car quite like this, or at least the first time he’s been able to put his hands on one. It’s in the light of his eyes, the careful line his lips draw themselves into. Remembering that he’s not alone, Adam offers to fetch him a chair, which Crowley pleasantly declines. At this point, he’d much rather stand than sit in anything made of atrocious sheet metal. Standing also gives him the opportunity to hover a polite distance away from the other male and watch him work.
“I take it that the lack of smoke and melted metal means that it isn’t in immediate danger?”
”Can’t say for sure ‘til I have a better look,” Adam responds, short and distracted. He blinks. “...That was supposed to be a joke, wasn’t it?”
”Yes, it was.”
“Ah,” A faint, nearly sheepish smile, “I’m sorry. That’s funny, I just...”
”You seem nervous,” Crowley interrupts smoothly, “You don’t mind if I stand here, do you?”
“No! No, ‘course not, sir. It’s just not usual someone wants to talk to me on the job.”
”That’s unfortunate. No, I understand. You need to focus. Go on ahead.”
Compliantly, and perhaps a little gratefully, Adam leans into the hull of the great mechanical monster. Though he may not be hands-on experienced with a model such as this, there’s a general practicality to his motions that well enough suggests competence and versatility. Crowley isn’t worried; he can renew the automobile if he needs to, but for now he’s put it up for collateral damage. He gives Adam a moment, watching the boy unscrew this or that with a rag acting as a barrier between the hot engine and his fingers.
“Damn war’s been stealing away quite a lot, hasn’t it? I read that the Big Man in D.C. lowered the draft age. How old are you, son?”
”Nineteen, sir,” Comes the grunt.
“Ah...” Crowley would offer a sympathetic face, but since the kid isn’t looking at him, he doesn’t bother faking it. “Haven’t managed to talk to anyone your age about it yet. Does it bother you?”
He’s issued the flush, a shot into the bush. What follows will give him a little more insight toward the nature of his prey. Will the human open up like a bird scared into the sky? Or perhaps attempt to slink his way out of the conversation? The answer is a little more predictable when he sees the boy pause and stare at a piece of the motor that is in no way significant to the conversation. Crowley puts his money on dismissal and a brave face; he’s absolutely correct.
“Not really.”
“Ah, well. I suppose a strapping lad like yourself may just have a fighting chance. Unless, of course, they’ve got guns. You know they’ve got the body is a temple, but I don’t think that really stands up against fire. Besides, there’s always the chance they’ll hit your head, then what are you to do? Come on; you’re just a kid. You don’t think you’ve been dealt a foul hand?”
“Well, the way I see it, sir,” The young man gave a thin, wry smile; he was clearly being polite, “My country needs me and I’m not better than any other man who’s already left their family to serve.”
“Well, that’s quite noble of you, but no less a load of shit. You’ve hardly been here long enough to owe ‘your country’ anything. First they take your money, now they’re asking for your blood? Hardly seems fair to me. Didn’t you have plans? For your future?”
“To be honest: not really,” The grin is almost sheepish and shows a bit of teeth. Crowley can only imagine what the kid must be thinking. Or not thinking. He’s just a yokel, after all, and a young one at that. “How about you, sir? You can’t be much over thirty.”
”You’re too kind,” Crowley purrs, eyes narrowing slyly above his sharp, sharp smile. The human has no idea.
“You um... How did you manage to get out of the draft?”
”I’m gayer than a Maypole.”
The demon very nearly breaks his composure to laugh at the pure, muddled shock that crosses the youth’s face. But then, the boy is laughing, ducking his head as if to contain the force, but until he claps a hand over his mouth, there’s no disguising the honest grin. Crowley feels his own lips twitch a little.
“You’re kidding,” Says Adam, eyes alight with lingering mirth. The demon gets the feeling that he hasn’t laughed even that much in a long time.
“Perhaps.”
“Well, no offense. That’s your business and all- I just wasn’t expecting you to be so...”
”None taken. I’m aware that I can be a little crass; I probably should have warned you, but then, that would have been counter-productive.”
“You’re definitely a horse of a different color. Ah, shit. I mean...”
Crowley grins.
“Well... I guess I could be a little worried. It’s just me and my dad, back at home, you see. This is our garage. Since my dad’s over the age limit, he doesn’t have to be worried about the draft. But if I go, well... it’s just him and another guy here by themselves.”
It’s definitely a step in the right direction, because Adam is volunteering information about himself for the first time. It doesn’t mean that the lad trusts him, or even likes him. No, this power he holds over him now is simply that he is a stranger, here today and gone tomorrow. Crowley has shown himself to be receptive to a young man’s plight against joining the army, which makes him open to hearing concern over it. Soon enough, Adam is going to figure out that he can unload his troubles on his customer without the consequence of having to hear about it later. It’s only a matter of time until Crowley will have the chance to strike.
”I see. And what does the old man think of it?”
”I uh... I don’t know. I guess he’s alright with it. Don’t have much of a choice.”
Another nuance in the art of the deal is reading between the lines. Crowley carefully makes notes to the pertinent things: A rough relationship with the father, because they haven’t so much as discussed Adam’s departure into the military. That makes one or both of them stubborn, or else they share a sense of duty that makes the subject untouchable. Either way, it’s something he can work with.
“See, now, you’re wrong there,” Says Crowley. It was just the point of the conversation he’d been waiting for, “There’s always a choice, Adam.”
”Oh yeah? Well, respectfully, sir, I don’t see it. If the service wants me, they’re gonna take me. I’m not queer or even flat-footed; there’s no excuse that I can’t go.”
“You could make one.”
”As much as I don’t care for the thought of being shot at, I care less for the thought of harming myself. I’ve had a buddy shoot himself in the foot and I just... Nah, that’s not for me.”
”I was thinking more of a... vacation. Canada, perhaps. Just until the war dies down, and assuming the world isn’t burnt to a cinder from it.”
Adam laughs, leaning under the hood of the car again and beginning to tinker once more. “You’re something, I gotta say. Sounds like a great idea, except I don’t have a thing to my name outside of this town and no way to get out of it. Besides, I heard they were watching the borders for just that.”
“Oh, I think I could get you in. If you’re willing to make a deal, I think today could just be your lucky day.”
It’s only after observing the way Adam’s long torso tenses that Crowley realizes how his statement must have come off. Still, for some twisted reason, he isn’t even going to attempt to to correct himself. It’s much more fun to see the young man metaphorically flail. He’s polite- far too polite considering the more-than-familiar prodding Crowley has been doing. The demon can’t decide if he’s been tolerated out of respect or if Adam needs his money that desperately. In this one-horse town, it’s certainly not a stretch to assume the latter. Whatever it is, Crowley is exploiting it shamelessly. He’s always had the habit of pushing.
Adam straightens to face him again, hip leaned on the grill of the Bentley. His green eyes are hard beneath the mild furrow of his brow, and he casts them quickly over the body of the moderately successful lawyer -tall, blonde, with a dusty tan from the Carolina sun- before looking him in the eye once more.
“Listen, Mister, you seem like a real fine fella and I don’t want to offend ya, but I’m really not interested in...” His throat bobs with a swallow, gaze flickering away uncertainly before he finishes, lower, “Running away with you.”
Crowley scoffs, smiles, and lets Adam see his eyes- the real ones.
If not for the Bentley, the human would have surely fallen on his ass right then and there. Instead, he clutches it like a lifeline after tripping back over his own feet. Crowley winces mildly.
“Demon!”
It’s Crowley’s turn to be surprised, although only slightly. The most he usually gets out of civilians is ‘monster’, if indeed there is anything coherent.
“That’s right,” He confirms, smiling sharply beneath the blood-red void of his eyes. For a moment, Adam simply gawks at him like any proper human, then slowly works to regain his and edge away. Crowley lets him.
“Well, that just figures.”
“Does it? Is there something you’d like to share?” But the answer is so obvious, really. The demon’s eyes narrow, “Hunter in the family, then? Else you’ve been dabbling around in the occult.” The latter is accented with a soft, tutting sound.
“Dad’s a hunter; retired,” Adam replies, curtly. A lot of things swing into perspective.
“Of course. Well, now that we’re on the same page, what do you say? One ticket away from the war, all expenses paid, to the destination of your choice. I’ll even throw in some pocket money to get you started if you’re ready to settle.”
”I say demons are as rotten as they come and nothing good is gonna come from dealing with one.”
”Oh? And who do you know that has made a deal with a demon?” When there is a satisfying lack of response and a slow glower, Crowley smirks, “You might be surprised.”
”Even if I didn’t know that you’re trying to rob me blind, I can’t just leave on some... some vacation!”
“So we make it as if you never existed. The government won’t know you’re a viable pawn to throw into the war machine. Whatever you want, darling, I can make it happen.”
Adam is looking him like a cornered animal, both defensive and ready to bolt at any moment, even fight back if the opportunity presents itself. At their cores, men aren’t much different from any other beast that crawls across the Earth. Aside from the fear and apprehension, though, there’s something else in Adam’s eyes, bright and unwavering as they stare unblinkingly at Crowley. As if a gaze alone could pin the demon into place. It’s a spark of interest, thinks the dealmaker, and he knows if he plays his cards right, he can stoke the fire.
“There’s always a catch. What’s the catch?” Adam implores slowly, careful.
“Nothing worth having comes without a price,” Crowley intones, “And I’ll admit, I’m not a battery of magic. I’m more like a... well-oiled machine, let’s say. An engine. I’ll need a little jump start to get going.”
”And that is...?”
”The energy produced by a soul. Oh, don’t make such a face. It’s not like I pluck it right out of your bloody chest! It’s more like a bank loan. At the end of a time, I’ll come to collect it. Well. Somone will.” More likely one of the dogs. Crowley was a busy demon, after all.
“Uh huh. And how long would the lease last?”
“Going rate is either ten years or death, whichever comes first. Contracts vary, of course, depending on the nature.”
“Bottom line is: straight to Hell.”
“I will not lie to you, Adam. Let’s just say that, come the time of your funeral, no one is going to be singing about you climbing the stairway to Heaven.”
“Is there a Heaven?”
To this, Crowley gives a noncommittal shrug. “I’ve never seen it,” Which is absolutely true, “If you don’t go to Hell, it’s possible you go nowhere at all.”
“But it’s Hell, for an eternity. It doesn’t seem like anything would be worth that kind of torment.”
”Oh, there are ways of getting by. And if you lead a full life, there will be plenty of good memories to help you through. After all, aren’t the only things that matter the things you do in this life? Can you really say that your vision of life ends face-down, rotting in a ditch, far from home? No one to really miss or notice you gone? Without ever knowing what it is to fall in love?
And if you really do end up killing someone, what then? Are you willing to bet that the standards of judgment are the same as what your country’s morals are? It’s possible that you’ll just end up roasting in Hell anyway for what you’ve done. That would be a damn shame.”
Adam goes silent for a long time, eyes lowered pensively to the grease rag he weaves between his fingers. There’s absolutely no denying that Crowley has made an excellent point, and by this time, it’s clear that Adam is a man of reason. ‘Damned if you do, Damned if you don’t,’ is Crowley’s favorite technique, second only to ‘Only way out’. It’s not a checkmate yet, but the demon is fairly confident he’s got Adam boxed right into the place he wants him.
“And it can be anything...?”
”Why don’t you just tell me what you’ve got in mind, mm?”
“What if I said I wanted you to work for me? Instead of asking for everything at once?”
Crowley arches a brow, but doesn’t allow himself to be baited, “It’s not unheard of. I’m sure I could find someone to look after you, though it might shorten the duration of your contract. Got a bit of a creative side, do you?”
”Not anyone- you.”
”I am flattered, Adam. Here I thought you were cross at me. Rotten as they come?” The demon is a little amused by the bravado of such a request. Adam must fancy himself as someone clever, then. Crowley does have to hand it to him; it’s a bold and interesting request, and after centuries of monotony, he’s learned to treasure deals like these. While he should be dreading an arrangement that may very well stick him as a servant to a teenage boy, he’s learned to work with smaller loopholes. Everything there is to a deal with demons is in the fine print- he could have Adam dead within the week and another bright soul in his pocket for eternity. Crowley isn’t afraid of a challenge; at least not one made by a mortal.
“So is that it? Are you my Faust?”
It’s disappointing that the reference is lost on the youth before him, but not particularly surprising. Adam seems to be thinking, which is both good and bad, depending. Crowley makes a show of pulling out his pocket watch.
“I want to know all the terms,” Says Adam, gruffly. Since he’s a professional, Crowley doesn’t allow himself to smile, but clicks the case on his watch shut and glances up to meet the younger man’s gaze.
”Ten years. I’ll do what’s in my power to see that you get everything you want, but after that, it’s your turn. Fair enough?”
”It seems too simple,” Adam reasons, “How do I know you won’t just kill me?”
”I will not kill you,” Crowley swears, because he can work with that. He’s got plenty of underlings that would be happy to do the job for him. “You should see the paperwork. It’s horrendous.”
”And that’s it?”
”That’s it. All your worldly desires ‘til death do us part. It’s the best bargain you can get. So. Is it a deal, darling?”
Adam glances away, eyes roving instead over the fine piece of machinery nearby. The greatest seller is possibility, and there’s no doubt that he’s considering a world open to his own machination. There are boys just like him trying to make a new life in all the corners of the world, willing to put down the ante in hopes of cashing out big. It’s more of a deal than Crowley’s pin-pricked counterpart ever got, but times have changed and there’s more imagination in the world.
“No.” The word comes slow and deep, but the eyes that flash back to face Crowley are sharp and firm, “I’d rather take my chances staring down the barrel of a rifle. So leave.”
And maybe Crowley loses his temper a little, because at one moment, the denial is sinking in, and in the next blink of an eye Adam’s too-long frame is flying across the garage. There’s a very satisfying smack and groan as the man hits the wall hard, rattling tools from the wall to make a joyous clattering on the dusty floor. As soon as Adam gets breath, there’s a struggle, but it’s absolutely no use. He’s pinned by the invisible force of demonic power, and Crowley is approaching with the slow menace of a hunter coming to check the traps. It’s far too easy to wrap fingers around the brat’s throat, tempting to squeeze the cords in his neck until his thumb can touch the rest. Crowley doesn’t, however. He just makes his grip snug for now, leaning up into the boy’s space so he can smell the sulfur.
“Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings, Adam. And I thought we were going to get along so well!” Crowley cants his head and frowns disapprovingly. There’s no disguising the fear that has filled Adam’s eyes, instinct winning over gall with the sure sign of an impending death. It’s only amplified, of course, when Crowley raises his voice, “You’ve got some nerve. Didn’t Daddy ever tell you not to play with things that have no contention against eating you?”
The taller male’s body jolts hard beneath his hand at the force of the words, flinching inward. In an impressive show of bravery, though, Adam tilts his head back, baring his throat in order to look down at Crowley.
“Is this how you make deals?” It comes out as a croak due to the pressure on his windpipe, “Someone doesn’t want to buy into your snake oil, you threaten to kill them? Well, if you’re going to do it, do it. I’d rather be nothing. Do it, you bastard. Because if you don’t, I’m coming after you.”
Crowley doesn’t recognize the feeling at first, the slow tickle of something sliding up through the indignation and fury. Really, Adam had gotten him going for a moment, sure that he was about to seal and wrap up another deal in a tidy and timely package. Then it hits him.
He’s laughing. That makes Adam’s eyes go wider than ever, but Crowley is hardly paying attention to him now. He releases the human from his hold and replaces his hand on the center of the other’s chest, using him to lean against as he steps back and feels the laughter take his shoulders. His other arm is wrapped around his belly, head lowered as well as if he can hold it in that way. It’s satisfying in an almost foreign way. God, it’s ridiculous! He should be pissed right about now, should be tearing the boy asunder with righteous fury for making him feel an ounce of disappointment. But if he’s honest it’s... it’s refreshing. No one has ever told Crowley “no”. Granted, it’s because Crowley picks his battles carefully when he has the chance, which nowadays is always. Perhaps this was indeed an oversight on his part- he was getting too cocky, thinking everything would line itself up according to his whim. He’d underestimated Adam who, indeed, could be any other over courageous, self-righteous man in the country.
Still, there’s some merit to being the first.
Once he’s managed to control himself again, Crowley reaches up and swabs aside the tears that have collected in the corners of his host’s eyes with a thumb. His free hand then pats heavily against the youth’s broad shoulders, offering nothing in the way of an explanation but congratulatory all the same. “Alright. Alright, Adam, you have it. I’ll be on my way.”
He relaxes his other hold, then removes it. Adam’s body sags like a ragdoll, sliding down the wall until the stilts of his legs find purchase and the will to keep him upright.
“What?” Adam asks, unintelligently, staring.
But all he’ll get to see is Crowley’s back for a while. The demon has returned to his car, reaching over to pluck the rag out of his engine and toss it. It hits Adam in his doe-eyed face before falling to the floor.
“You’re absolutely right. I’m not in the habit of pushing myself where my honest efforts will go unappreciated,” He flips the hood of the Bentley shut once more. When he does, his eyes have returned to their normal state and he’s smiling thinly. His host has one of the most winning smiles; it won him a lot of favor from the jury. “I really do hope you make it through the war. I would love to see you again, Mister Winchester.”
”If I see you again, I’ll put a bullet through your brain.”
Crowley’s lip curls, amused, before he opens the door to his monster of a car. “A little research in your off time couldn’t kill you, either. Ta-ta for now, Adam.”
He doesn’t hear a protest. For all intents and purposes, he’s finished with this transaction. Or lack of one. To Adam, it would seem as if he and a ton of steel had vanished into thin air in the span of a blink. It’s a petty trick, but a good one if you’re planning to leave your victim disconcerted and paranoid. That is every bit apart of Crowley’s intention.
Because Crowley does intend to see the man again. Not next week or even next year, perhaps. Unless Adam seeks him out personally, it’s clear enough to the demonic dealmaker that there’s no sale to be had at this point in time. Given some time, however, new opportunities will arise.
Everyone has their price, after all. And if there is anything that Crowley has come to learn throughout his various dealings, it’s that the mortal plight never ceases, but compounds as surely as the universe expands. Human lives merely circle the drain to oblivion and Adam is young. Soon enough, he’s going to feel the downward spiral, and when he does, Crowley will be there to sell him a parachute of the most questionable quality he can manage. As with any investment, it’s a waiting game.
Beta: elusive_life_77 - any further mistakes are my own
Fandom: Supernatural (Pre-Series)
Pairing: None. Gen, Crowley-centric.
Rating: PG-13 or a very soft R
Disclaimer: I don’t claim anything. Please don’t sue me.
Warnings: Language, violence, terrible references as per usual
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 7,272
Summary: There is no business quite like soul-stealing. However, whether it’s climbing the corporate ladder or dealing with mortal ingrates, Crowley is keeping it classy.
AN: Written for the spn_reversebang prompt: "Crowley and his 'deal-making'. Go." I was a little iffy about being a pinch-hitter with my RL situation, but as soon as I saw mizra's art, I knew I would have to go for it. elusive_life_77 was a champion and totally turned this fic out for me in record time. With our powers combined... I think this came out to be a pretty decent fic. I can't thank them enough.
All art is done by mizra and all comments regarding it should be directed to her art post here!
Taking the final step to becoming a demon was, quite literally, a shock to the system. While being dragged to Hell wasn’t exactly peaches and cream, there was nothing in his existence, before or after he was technically living, to prepare him for that particular metaphysical agony. Of course, when it came to genuine art of inventive, forceful persuasion, the Cult of Eternal Damnation featured only the cream of the crop. After being yanked from the frayed ribbons of his body and worked over by Hell’s Finest (most probably ditch-diggers and jilted women in life) for what seemed like twice the time he had spent in actual meat, Fergus was ready to prostrate himself before the Devil himself, if it meant a pint of lukewarm rotgut. Getting a membership jacket seemed like the permanent reprieve.
He did what he had to, to whomever he had to, and helped strip himself bare. When there was almost nothing left, the soul of Fergus McLeod unraveled. He doesn’t remember quite how they put him back together after he was unmade, only that the breath of life was fire and brimstone. Hate was like hot, liquid metal, poured in and in until all the gaps were sealed, until he was filled to the brim and overflowing. Out of the eternal flame, he was born again, a new creature built around the scraps of another. Hell had successfully retailored the tailor, so to speak. Of course it was only right, then, to take a new name.
Every day after that was a summer Scotland could never give him. Each calendar date marked another chance to give the Devil his due. Crowley, full of flame and promise, would indeed prove to be a demon that managed to break the mold in latter days.
Still, for the lion’s share of the first few centuries after his rebirth, he couldn’t stop spitting fire.
Contrary to popular belief, not everyone in Hell knows what they’re doing.
For the most part, demons are just a leaderless army stockpiling ammunition for a war that could come either sooner or later. No one really knows the details, but then, no one really cares either. Creatures twisted by wrath and self-interest don’t really need a reason to fight. While the general stock might be nursed by thoughts of a greater cause and distracted by the Pit’s many outlets for finagling, any demon worth their sulfur knows that the real game in Hell is gaining power. Pain is the coin of the realm, because when it all boils down to it, the only real ranking among demons lies in who can hurt who the most. Good old Fergus had granted Crowley the advantage: he recognized the pissing contest instantaneously and started adding his inches early.
Hell is a very large place under constant renovation and Crowley is a good few decades into the game before he even hears about Lilith. It takes another decade before he actually meets her. She’d taken a break from her own machinations and attended one of the many bloodthirsty demon conventions and oh, she is delightfully hideous. After taking his victory in the arena of flesh and fear, he is invited to her personal box above the rabble. She likes him; then again, he’s heard about her thing for children and his icebreaker after their preliminary greetings is to ask after the progress of a certain Modest Proposal. He’s also a bit drunk on demonic energy at the time.
It is there that Crowley learns that the Big Boss isn’t simply busy, but locked away in solitary and temporarily misplaced. Lilith, and most of the other demons that are released topside, are mostly playing point-men to find Lucifer’s cage, while whispering into the right ears along the way. He learned that, for the most part, Hell claims only a few of history’s bloody wars as its own; it is, ironically, more responsible for infamous writers and talents than it is kings or their downfalls. Sin manages itself.
“We can’t forget men like Fergus, though,” She says, narrowing all six of her age-worn eyes, “So willing to give more for less. It’d be a shame if we left souls like that ready to go back to church the first time their wives so much as coughed fluid.”
And all Crowley had said in return was, “I could have gotten him and his son. For two inches and a jug of scotch.”
A sneer in Hell is just as good as a smile. Lilith laughed, light and breathy, unwavering femininity through all the filth.
“The real challenge is in breaking the righteous man. Man is imperfect and inclined to sin by nature, but there are those who pretend to live above such a manner. Try to do ‘better’, as it were. There is nothing quite so satisfying as tearing that pretense away from them and having them embrace what they were always meant to be. That has always been the belief of our Lord, Lucifer. Heaven weeps in the face of its folly and we grow much stronger for it. Perhaps someday, Crowley, you will know the weight of this truth as well.”
Crowley didn’t say anything, just bowed his head as though grateful to be afforded even a minor tidbit from Hell’s First. He may be full of fire then (quite literally), but he plans to live for a long while yet, maybe even one day escape the Inferno. They both know that Lilith has the power to get him there, and that it’s in his best interest to stay in her favor.
Before she left, she kissed his cheek and it was not unlike being stabbed with hot iron. By some miracle, Crowley did not flinch, even when her long talons brushed along the underside of his jaw in a perfect show of a friendly threat. She could obliterate him as easily as she could bat an eye.
“Don’t die too soon, Crowley.”
Hunters start becoming a real problem in the nineteenth century. There really is a Van Helsing. But more than that, there are clans in his ancestral homeland cropping up to find the Unseelie, and men in the New World who learn very quickly that there are more things to fear than a stray red-faced Savage come the dark. Crowley gets his chance then. Not only do demons face the chance of being exorcised or otherwise killed (men in these days are far closer to God and the manner in which demons should be taken care of), but there are more humans to populate and otherwise over-run the Earth. The soul business has upsized and Crowely seizes the opportunity.
He’s never seen the Americas before, but then, he hasn’t seen the sun or the moon in over centuries either. Promotion comes in rites, of course. All it really means, though, is a new set of eyes and a signed note from Mommy Dearest to make the field-trip topside. He’s anchored to the crossroads, most of these coming in the form of some poor, backwoods trail that puts him ankle-deep in mud. It’s still a far cry from what one can step in down in the Pit, though, so he can’t really complain. The leash is long, too, so it isn’t as if he has to linger longer than what the deal requires.
The job, more often than not, requires him to move into town and start the preliminaries that way. No one tells him much at all, but Crowley catches on quick enough.
Lilith was right. There are far too many people willing to make a deal and sign away their soul; they’re just waiting for their benefactor to make it all better.
Crowley’s first is a man named Samuel Brannan. They’re in central California and Crowley has stolen the body of a moderately successful local banker. In Brannan’s shop, the light is growing dim and the man is accounting for his stock when Crowley brushes in after hours. Brannan is a real champ, though- he fetches Crowley tobacco, rolling papers, and whiskey without batting an eye.
When it comes time to pay for the commodities, the demon offers him a handful of gold dust.
After that, it’s all a downhill run. People from all over the world came come flocking to the West for fame and fortune. Crowley sold the tickets, the pans, and the secrets. Of course, it wasn’t his fault if his customers didn’t word their deals properly, if all they asked for was the means to move their families and could only find river rocks at the journey’s end. Debatably, the only kind thing he ever did in those times was to revoke the ten year lease on Brannan. After all, no one forgets their first, and he was well worth his weight in gold. So to speak.
In Pennsylvania, there’s a boy after his own black heart. He’s got a pocketful of nothing and a poor Scottish family. Two dollars a week isn’t enough in those times for cabbage stew, but he’s got a shine in his eye and a bright soul to barter if Crowley can give him a foot in the door. It’s a strange request, but it’s his soul. Crowley likes him, for what it’s worth. He tells him to start in telegrams, and when the time comes, turns the head of a businessman just the right way. He doesn’t bother penning in the ten years. They’ll have drinks at the turn of the century.
Chicago, 1869, he meets a brute of a man at the crossroads and grants him the wish of success in the building industry. It isn’t at all pleasant, mostly because the man slashes his cheek open with a knife when the deal is due to be sealed. Crowley about kills him - the body of the moderately successful corporate salesman is his favorite one yet.
Two years later, the toe of his boot oh-so-clumsily finds a lantern during a stroll through the neighborhood. Chicago burns.
Needless to say, Crowley is a busy, busy boy. It’s only a matter of time before he’s got workers, admirers and enemies alike. He isn’t the King quite yet -that road is still a stretch away, but not so far out of sight; technically the position doesn’t even exist- but there’s certainly nothing wrong with General Manager.
In all respects he’s a new man, his own man... for the most part. The most Fergus could expect from a day was the bit of scotch that came at the end of it, mild weather, and a roll in the hay. Crowley can have breakfast in France and be in New Orleans for lunch. Crowley can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, without fear of consequence or trace of shame. Because Crowley is smart and he’s good at his job; the best, in fact, considering the time (or lack thereof) he’s been given to perfect it. It isn’t as if he’s without a master, or even without peer, but the list of demons he answers to has dramatically shortened in only a handful of decades.
And of course, for Hell, there is no official form of punishment for vice- only failure. There is competition and envy to be had from others, but he’s been clever with his connections. A friend of everyone, and yet, no one all the same. And he’s proved himself to be plenty wicked enough along the way to make anyone think twice of testing his mettle. The world is his oyster, after all, and he loves what it has to offer him-or the closest approximation of love that a demon can feel, anyway. Even if he didn’t like the business of stealing souls (and he does- he bloody well enjoys it because there is something so very addicting in outwitting and coercing mortals out of their souls, or likewise outdoing his associates), he’ll be damned if he’s going to let anyone take that freedom from him.
He has drinks and dinner every so often with the demon that made his own deal. Crowley outranks him now. Once, when he’d had a few and Crowley was recounting his most interesting deals, he told Crowley that he was proud of him. As if he had some claim over even an iota of what Crowley had built for himself. Crowley had simply winked and offered to pour him another so they could toast to it. But it stayed with him, and he didn’t forget; Crowley never missed a beat.
One night, they’re sitting in Crowley’s winter home in Mississippi, some long time before the humans began really clogging it up with their fertilizer and nuclear waste. It’s a nice, cozy sort of cottage just south of the real plantations, and they’re sitting on the porch, smoking cigars. It’s peaceful- the moon rises over the Gulf and, for at almost mile out, they can see the bottom of the sea like it’s made of rippled glass. At this time of night, there are most undoubtedly sharks sliding through the warm waters. Crowley’s eyes slide to their corners to look at his elder without thought at first, sated by the warm wind blowing in (heat is a must for demons given their natural habitat), and watches the ember at the end of the cigar grow bright on the inhale. All he thinks in that moment is ‘Why not?’ and takes it a step farther. His deal maker burns from the inside out, seizing and managing an inhuman screech even as his meat suit’s eyes blacken, then melt out of their sockets. Crowley looks on, having canted his head just barely to take in the sight as if it’s only a minor spectacle. The wind blows in again and carries the ash away. Crowley takes a thoughtful drag on his own cigar before leaning across and plucking the still-burning stub of his former associate’s stogie off the rocking chair. No sense letting that go to waste, after all, or burning the ebony-wood chair. It’s quiet.
He doesn’t regret it and he never will. No one will question him, either, or even fault him for it. If anything, he’s done a service to his community by weeding out the weak from the strong. It’s disappointing, really. But now there is no evidence of the demon left behind to taint his own name.
Crowley thinks a lot of himself; he’s clever, classy, and charismatic. But he never claimed to be grateful. He may have owed his eventual manifestation to the little pile of ash, but no one said he couldn’t be spiteful about it.
He meets a prospective client in 1941. Just within the last thirty years, Crowley has grown fat with success (figuratively, of course). War has swept its way through most of the planet because no one can seem to keep their nose out of anyone’s business, or else keep from buying help. First along came the whim of a struggle, just a desire to show strength justified by the smallest reason. Bodies filled trenches on either side and the air stank of chlorine. Men pinned down in foxholes clutched one another and prayed for someone, anyone who might help them survive another day. That was really what war amounts to in the demon’s mind. Fear and blood and chaos; a lot like Hell without the flesh wallpapering. In Germany, there’s a little man who spreads his hate under the guise of patriotism and entitlement. It’s a tale as old as time, really, but the extent to which it affects humanity is, quite frankly, much more horrendous and overblown in comparison to anything that came before it. And it will be the most documented as well.
Crowley isn’t responsible for making the deal with the dejected little artist boy, but he knows (and is a bit envious) of the demon that does. He does go to see the marches before the carnage. By this time, his curiosity for people has become much more than a necessity for his profession.
And while the second “World War” has disrupted quite a lot of Crowley’s schedule, it’s a real buyer’s market. He takes a road trip through America, snatching up draft-dodgers where it seems viable. It’s how he ends up in Indiana, in some little town just a nip outside of Richmond. The demon is wearing the meat of a moderately successful attorney at this point, the body he takes right before the moderately successful journalist Sam and Dean will one day meet.
Crowley drives a brand-spanking-new Bentley Mark V into the local mechanic’s garage for a check and a tire replacement. He’s practically burnt the rubber flat on them just driving the beast honestly up from Georgia. It’s a novelty he won’t care much for later, but for now, he’s not unlike a child with a new toy. And he smelled business this way, which was why he didn’t bother replacing the tires himself just yet.
He gets out and has a look around, hands carefully arranging his coat to make sure his suspenders are properly hidden. No one comes springing out of the shop to meet him right away and no one seems to be on the street. Belatedly, he realizes that it’s Sunday afternoon. In all likelihood, a town like this has closed up and moved to the chapel, and he certainly can’t head there, can he? Surely someone must be here, though, if he sensed it.
Inside the shop, he does indeed find his quarry. The human is sitting behind the small wooden counter, a newspaper folded over his hands. He looks up when the door opens, and when Crowley steps in, is quick to rise to his feet. He is the tallest American teenager that the demon has ever seen.
“Good afternoon, sir,” says the young man, closing the paper and tucking it aside. He’s got short black hair, military cut, and green eyes. Firm jaw and shoulders, but too young to be anything less than awkward at his height. Fit, between eighteen and nineteen. Wonderful cannon fodder.
The tag embroidered into his gray coveralls says “Adam”.
“It’s a fine afternoon,” Crowley agrees, the cultured southern drawl of his meat suit filtering through. “Hope I’m not botherin’ ya, son, but I could use some help. Are you all by your lonesome?”
”Today, yes sir,” confirms the youth. He picks up some keys from a nearby rack and discretely takes a look at Crowley from the corner of his eyes. Then he rounds the counter and gestures mildly for the dealmaker to follow him out the door, which he holds, “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Not a lot of trouble, per se. I went and wore the rubber down on my tires, you see, and I’d be obliged if you’d take a look at the engine, too.”
At the mention of tires, Adam hesitates then, explains that the war has limited the import of rubber for tires and only a shop in one of the big cities might have a chance of getting them ordered.
He’d be happy to take a look at the engine for him, though, and fix anything that might need it. Crowley consents-- he’s courteous and understanding-- watching as the young man flips the hood of the Bentley up and runs his hands musingly along the outer edge. It’s obvious from the boy’s reaction that this is probably the first time he’s seen a car quite like this, or at least the first time he’s been able to put his hands on one. It’s in the light of his eyes, the careful line his lips draw themselves into. Remembering that he’s not alone, Adam offers to fetch him a chair, which Crowley pleasantly declines. At this point, he’d much rather stand than sit in anything made of atrocious sheet metal. Standing also gives him the opportunity to hover a polite distance away from the other male and watch him work.
“I take it that the lack of smoke and melted metal means that it isn’t in immediate danger?”
”Can’t say for sure ‘til I have a better look,” Adam responds, short and distracted. He blinks. “...That was supposed to be a joke, wasn’t it?”
”Yes, it was.”
“Ah,” A faint, nearly sheepish smile, “I’m sorry. That’s funny, I just...”
”You seem nervous,” Crowley interrupts smoothly, “You don’t mind if I stand here, do you?”
“No! No, ‘course not, sir. It’s just not usual someone wants to talk to me on the job.”
”That’s unfortunate. No, I understand. You need to focus. Go on ahead.”
Compliantly, and perhaps a little gratefully, Adam leans into the hull of the great mechanical monster. Though he may not be hands-on experienced with a model such as this, there’s a general practicality to his motions that well enough suggests competence and versatility. Crowley isn’t worried; he can renew the automobile if he needs to, but for now he’s put it up for collateral damage. He gives Adam a moment, watching the boy unscrew this or that with a rag acting as a barrier between the hot engine and his fingers.
“Damn war’s been stealing away quite a lot, hasn’t it? I read that the Big Man in D.C. lowered the draft age. How old are you, son?”
”Nineteen, sir,” Comes the grunt.
“Ah...” Crowley would offer a sympathetic face, but since the kid isn’t looking at him, he doesn’t bother faking it. “Haven’t managed to talk to anyone your age about it yet. Does it bother you?”
He’s issued the flush, a shot into the bush. What follows will give him a little more insight toward the nature of his prey. Will the human open up like a bird scared into the sky? Or perhaps attempt to slink his way out of the conversation? The answer is a little more predictable when he sees the boy pause and stare at a piece of the motor that is in no way significant to the conversation. Crowley puts his money on dismissal and a brave face; he’s absolutely correct.
“Not really.”
“Ah, well. I suppose a strapping lad like yourself may just have a fighting chance. Unless, of course, they’ve got guns. You know they’ve got the body is a temple, but I don’t think that really stands up against fire. Besides, there’s always the chance they’ll hit your head, then what are you to do? Come on; you’re just a kid. You don’t think you’ve been dealt a foul hand?”
“Well, the way I see it, sir,” The young man gave a thin, wry smile; he was clearly being polite, “My country needs me and I’m not better than any other man who’s already left their family to serve.”
“Well, that’s quite noble of you, but no less a load of shit. You’ve hardly been here long enough to owe ‘your country’ anything. First they take your money, now they’re asking for your blood? Hardly seems fair to me. Didn’t you have plans? For your future?”
“To be honest: not really,” The grin is almost sheepish and shows a bit of teeth. Crowley can only imagine what the kid must be thinking. Or not thinking. He’s just a yokel, after all, and a young one at that. “How about you, sir? You can’t be much over thirty.”
”You’re too kind,” Crowley purrs, eyes narrowing slyly above his sharp, sharp smile. The human has no idea.
“You um... How did you manage to get out of the draft?”
”I’m gayer than a Maypole.”
The demon very nearly breaks his composure to laugh at the pure, muddled shock that crosses the youth’s face. But then, the boy is laughing, ducking his head as if to contain the force, but until he claps a hand over his mouth, there’s no disguising the honest grin. Crowley feels his own lips twitch a little.
“You’re kidding,” Says Adam, eyes alight with lingering mirth. The demon gets the feeling that he hasn’t laughed even that much in a long time.
“Perhaps.”
“Well, no offense. That’s your business and all- I just wasn’t expecting you to be so...”
”None taken. I’m aware that I can be a little crass; I probably should have warned you, but then, that would have been counter-productive.”
“You’re definitely a horse of a different color. Ah, shit. I mean...”
Crowley grins.
“Well... I guess I could be a little worried. It’s just me and my dad, back at home, you see. This is our garage. Since my dad’s over the age limit, he doesn’t have to be worried about the draft. But if I go, well... it’s just him and another guy here by themselves.”
It’s definitely a step in the right direction, because Adam is volunteering information about himself for the first time. It doesn’t mean that the lad trusts him, or even likes him. No, this power he holds over him now is simply that he is a stranger, here today and gone tomorrow. Crowley has shown himself to be receptive to a young man’s plight against joining the army, which makes him open to hearing concern over it. Soon enough, Adam is going to figure out that he can unload his troubles on his customer without the consequence of having to hear about it later. It’s only a matter of time until Crowley will have the chance to strike.
”I see. And what does the old man think of it?”
”I uh... I don’t know. I guess he’s alright with it. Don’t have much of a choice.”
Another nuance in the art of the deal is reading between the lines. Crowley carefully makes notes to the pertinent things: A rough relationship with the father, because they haven’t so much as discussed Adam’s departure into the military. That makes one or both of them stubborn, or else they share a sense of duty that makes the subject untouchable. Either way, it’s something he can work with.
“See, now, you’re wrong there,” Says Crowley. It was just the point of the conversation he’d been waiting for, “There’s always a choice, Adam.”
”Oh yeah? Well, respectfully, sir, I don’t see it. If the service wants me, they’re gonna take me. I’m not queer or even flat-footed; there’s no excuse that I can’t go.”
“You could make one.”
”As much as I don’t care for the thought of being shot at, I care less for the thought of harming myself. I’ve had a buddy shoot himself in the foot and I just... Nah, that’s not for me.”
”I was thinking more of a... vacation. Canada, perhaps. Just until the war dies down, and assuming the world isn’t burnt to a cinder from it.”
Adam laughs, leaning under the hood of the car again and beginning to tinker once more. “You’re something, I gotta say. Sounds like a great idea, except I don’t have a thing to my name outside of this town and no way to get out of it. Besides, I heard they were watching the borders for just that.”
“Oh, I think I could get you in. If you’re willing to make a deal, I think today could just be your lucky day.”
It’s only after observing the way Adam’s long torso tenses that Crowley realizes how his statement must have come off. Still, for some twisted reason, he isn’t even going to attempt to to correct himself. It’s much more fun to see the young man metaphorically flail. He’s polite- far too polite considering the more-than-familiar prodding Crowley has been doing. The demon can’t decide if he’s been tolerated out of respect or if Adam needs his money that desperately. In this one-horse town, it’s certainly not a stretch to assume the latter. Whatever it is, Crowley is exploiting it shamelessly. He’s always had the habit of pushing.
Adam straightens to face him again, hip leaned on the grill of the Bentley. His green eyes are hard beneath the mild furrow of his brow, and he casts them quickly over the body of the moderately successful lawyer -tall, blonde, with a dusty tan from the Carolina sun- before looking him in the eye once more.
“Listen, Mister, you seem like a real fine fella and I don’t want to offend ya, but I’m really not interested in...” His throat bobs with a swallow, gaze flickering away uncertainly before he finishes, lower, “Running away with you.”
Crowley scoffs, smiles, and lets Adam see his eyes- the real ones.
If not for the Bentley, the human would have surely fallen on his ass right then and there. Instead, he clutches it like a lifeline after tripping back over his own feet. Crowley winces mildly.
“Demon!”
It’s Crowley’s turn to be surprised, although only slightly. The most he usually gets out of civilians is ‘monster’, if indeed there is anything coherent.
“That’s right,” He confirms, smiling sharply beneath the blood-red void of his eyes. For a moment, Adam simply gawks at him like any proper human, then slowly works to regain his and edge away. Crowley lets him.
“Well, that just figures.”
“Does it? Is there something you’d like to share?” But the answer is so obvious, really. The demon’s eyes narrow, “Hunter in the family, then? Else you’ve been dabbling around in the occult.” The latter is accented with a soft, tutting sound.
“Dad’s a hunter; retired,” Adam replies, curtly. A lot of things swing into perspective.
“Of course. Well, now that we’re on the same page, what do you say? One ticket away from the war, all expenses paid, to the destination of your choice. I’ll even throw in some pocket money to get you started if you’re ready to settle.”
”I say demons are as rotten as they come and nothing good is gonna come from dealing with one.”
”Oh? And who do you know that has made a deal with a demon?” When there is a satisfying lack of response and a slow glower, Crowley smirks, “You might be surprised.”
”Even if I didn’t know that you’re trying to rob me blind, I can’t just leave on some... some vacation!”
“So we make it as if you never existed. The government won’t know you’re a viable pawn to throw into the war machine. Whatever you want, darling, I can make it happen.”
Adam is looking him like a cornered animal, both defensive and ready to bolt at any moment, even fight back if the opportunity presents itself. At their cores, men aren’t much different from any other beast that crawls across the Earth. Aside from the fear and apprehension, though, there’s something else in Adam’s eyes, bright and unwavering as they stare unblinkingly at Crowley. As if a gaze alone could pin the demon into place. It’s a spark of interest, thinks the dealmaker, and he knows if he plays his cards right, he can stoke the fire.
“There’s always a catch. What’s the catch?” Adam implores slowly, careful.
“Nothing worth having comes without a price,” Crowley intones, “And I’ll admit, I’m not a battery of magic. I’m more like a... well-oiled machine, let’s say. An engine. I’ll need a little jump start to get going.”
”And that is...?”
”The energy produced by a soul. Oh, don’t make such a face. It’s not like I pluck it right out of your bloody chest! It’s more like a bank loan. At the end of a time, I’ll come to collect it. Well. Somone will.” More likely one of the dogs. Crowley was a busy demon, after all.
“Uh huh. And how long would the lease last?”
“Going rate is either ten years or death, whichever comes first. Contracts vary, of course, depending on the nature.”
“Bottom line is: straight to Hell.”
“I will not lie to you, Adam. Let’s just say that, come the time of your funeral, no one is going to be singing about you climbing the stairway to Heaven.”
“Is there a Heaven?”
To this, Crowley gives a noncommittal shrug. “I’ve never seen it,” Which is absolutely true, “If you don’t go to Hell, it’s possible you go nowhere at all.”
“But it’s Hell, for an eternity. It doesn’t seem like anything would be worth that kind of torment.”
”Oh, there are ways of getting by. And if you lead a full life, there will be plenty of good memories to help you through. After all, aren’t the only things that matter the things you do in this life? Can you really say that your vision of life ends face-down, rotting in a ditch, far from home? No one to really miss or notice you gone? Without ever knowing what it is to fall in love?
And if you really do end up killing someone, what then? Are you willing to bet that the standards of judgment are the same as what your country’s morals are? It’s possible that you’ll just end up roasting in Hell anyway for what you’ve done. That would be a damn shame.”
Adam goes silent for a long time, eyes lowered pensively to the grease rag he weaves between his fingers. There’s absolutely no denying that Crowley has made an excellent point, and by this time, it’s clear that Adam is a man of reason. ‘Damned if you do, Damned if you don’t,’ is Crowley’s favorite technique, second only to ‘Only way out’. It’s not a checkmate yet, but the demon is fairly confident he’s got Adam boxed right into the place he wants him.
“And it can be anything...?”
”Why don’t you just tell me what you’ve got in mind, mm?”
“What if I said I wanted you to work for me? Instead of asking for everything at once?”
Crowley arches a brow, but doesn’t allow himself to be baited, “It’s not unheard of. I’m sure I could find someone to look after you, though it might shorten the duration of your contract. Got a bit of a creative side, do you?”
”Not anyone- you.”
”I am flattered, Adam. Here I thought you were cross at me. Rotten as they come?” The demon is a little amused by the bravado of such a request. Adam must fancy himself as someone clever, then. Crowley does have to hand it to him; it’s a bold and interesting request, and after centuries of monotony, he’s learned to treasure deals like these. While he should be dreading an arrangement that may very well stick him as a servant to a teenage boy, he’s learned to work with smaller loopholes. Everything there is to a deal with demons is in the fine print- he could have Adam dead within the week and another bright soul in his pocket for eternity. Crowley isn’t afraid of a challenge; at least not one made by a mortal.
“So is that it? Are you my Faust?”
It’s disappointing that the reference is lost on the youth before him, but not particularly surprising. Adam seems to be thinking, which is both good and bad, depending. Crowley makes a show of pulling out his pocket watch.
“I want to know all the terms,” Says Adam, gruffly. Since he’s a professional, Crowley doesn’t allow himself to smile, but clicks the case on his watch shut and glances up to meet the younger man’s gaze.
”Ten years. I’ll do what’s in my power to see that you get everything you want, but after that, it’s your turn. Fair enough?”
”It seems too simple,” Adam reasons, “How do I know you won’t just kill me?”
”I will not kill you,” Crowley swears, because he can work with that. He’s got plenty of underlings that would be happy to do the job for him. “You should see the paperwork. It’s horrendous.”
”And that’s it?”
”That’s it. All your worldly desires ‘til death do us part. It’s the best bargain you can get. So. Is it a deal, darling?”
Adam glances away, eyes roving instead over the fine piece of machinery nearby. The greatest seller is possibility, and there’s no doubt that he’s considering a world open to his own machination. There are boys just like him trying to make a new life in all the corners of the world, willing to put down the ante in hopes of cashing out big. It’s more of a deal than Crowley’s pin-pricked counterpart ever got, but times have changed and there’s more imagination in the world.
“No.” The word comes slow and deep, but the eyes that flash back to face Crowley are sharp and firm, “I’d rather take my chances staring down the barrel of a rifle. So leave.”
And maybe Crowley loses his temper a little, because at one moment, the denial is sinking in, and in the next blink of an eye Adam’s too-long frame is flying across the garage. There’s a very satisfying smack and groan as the man hits the wall hard, rattling tools from the wall to make a joyous clattering on the dusty floor. As soon as Adam gets breath, there’s a struggle, but it’s absolutely no use. He’s pinned by the invisible force of demonic power, and Crowley is approaching with the slow menace of a hunter coming to check the traps. It’s far too easy to wrap fingers around the brat’s throat, tempting to squeeze the cords in his neck until his thumb can touch the rest. Crowley doesn’t, however. He just makes his grip snug for now, leaning up into the boy’s space so he can smell the sulfur.
“Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings, Adam. And I thought we were going to get along so well!” Crowley cants his head and frowns disapprovingly. There’s no disguising the fear that has filled Adam’s eyes, instinct winning over gall with the sure sign of an impending death. It’s only amplified, of course, when Crowley raises his voice, “You’ve got some nerve. Didn’t Daddy ever tell you not to play with things that have no contention against eating you?”
The taller male’s body jolts hard beneath his hand at the force of the words, flinching inward. In an impressive show of bravery, though, Adam tilts his head back, baring his throat in order to look down at Crowley.
“Is this how you make deals?” It comes out as a croak due to the pressure on his windpipe, “Someone doesn’t want to buy into your snake oil, you threaten to kill them? Well, if you’re going to do it, do it. I’d rather be nothing. Do it, you bastard. Because if you don’t, I’m coming after you.”
Crowley doesn’t recognize the feeling at first, the slow tickle of something sliding up through the indignation and fury. Really, Adam had gotten him going for a moment, sure that he was about to seal and wrap up another deal in a tidy and timely package. Then it hits him.
He’s laughing. That makes Adam’s eyes go wider than ever, but Crowley is hardly paying attention to him now. He releases the human from his hold and replaces his hand on the center of the other’s chest, using him to lean against as he steps back and feels the laughter take his shoulders. His other arm is wrapped around his belly, head lowered as well as if he can hold it in that way. It’s satisfying in an almost foreign way. God, it’s ridiculous! He should be pissed right about now, should be tearing the boy asunder with righteous fury for making him feel an ounce of disappointment. But if he’s honest it’s... it’s refreshing. No one has ever told Crowley “no”. Granted, it’s because Crowley picks his battles carefully when he has the chance, which nowadays is always. Perhaps this was indeed an oversight on his part- he was getting too cocky, thinking everything would line itself up according to his whim. He’d underestimated Adam who, indeed, could be any other over courageous, self-righteous man in the country.
Still, there’s some merit to being the first.
Once he’s managed to control himself again, Crowley reaches up and swabs aside the tears that have collected in the corners of his host’s eyes with a thumb. His free hand then pats heavily against the youth’s broad shoulders, offering nothing in the way of an explanation but congratulatory all the same. “Alright. Alright, Adam, you have it. I’ll be on my way.”
He relaxes his other hold, then removes it. Adam’s body sags like a ragdoll, sliding down the wall until the stilts of his legs find purchase and the will to keep him upright.
“What?” Adam asks, unintelligently, staring.
But all he’ll get to see is Crowley’s back for a while. The demon has returned to his car, reaching over to pluck the rag out of his engine and toss it. It hits Adam in his doe-eyed face before falling to the floor.
“You’re absolutely right. I’m not in the habit of pushing myself where my honest efforts will go unappreciated,” He flips the hood of the Bentley shut once more. When he does, his eyes have returned to their normal state and he’s smiling thinly. His host has one of the most winning smiles; it won him a lot of favor from the jury. “I really do hope you make it through the war. I would love to see you again, Mister Winchester.”
”If I see you again, I’ll put a bullet through your brain.”
Crowley’s lip curls, amused, before he opens the door to his monster of a car. “A little research in your off time couldn’t kill you, either. Ta-ta for now, Adam.”
He doesn’t hear a protest. For all intents and purposes, he’s finished with this transaction. Or lack of one. To Adam, it would seem as if he and a ton of steel had vanished into thin air in the span of a blink. It’s a petty trick, but a good one if you’re planning to leave your victim disconcerted and paranoid. That is every bit apart of Crowley’s intention.
Because Crowley does intend to see the man again. Not next week or even next year, perhaps. Unless Adam seeks him out personally, it’s clear enough to the demonic dealmaker that there’s no sale to be had at this point in time. Given some time, however, new opportunities will arise.
Everyone has their price, after all. And if there is anything that Crowley has come to learn throughout his various dealings, it’s that the mortal plight never ceases, but compounds as surely as the universe expands. Human lives merely circle the drain to oblivion and Adam is young. Soon enough, he’s going to feel the downward spiral, and when he does, Crowley will be there to sell him a parachute of the most questionable quality he can manage. As with any investment, it’s a waiting game.