SPN FIC - Promotion
There's a vacancy in the ranks -- a job that needs to be done. Souls that need to be captured. And... who better to fill it? After all, she's always been good at getting what she wanted.
"I reminded you of yourself, is that it?"
CHARACTERS: Bela and Crowley
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1092 words
PROMOTION
By Carol Davis
There's no point in asking Who? when they say He wants to see you. There's just one He these days. The others have all been eliminated; there's just one dog at the top of this heap.
The King of Hell.
Nor is there any point in asking Where?
There's no "here" here, she thinks as she turns her attention toward Him, the royal He, the top dog of this eternal shitpile - no place that's distinct from any other place. It's all perception, nothing more; all she has to do is think of him and she's immediately there.
"Sweetheart," he oozes.
He's in the library of his manor house, all dark wood and leather, shadows and subtle smells. Whether Crowley's earthly self ever owned something like it, she isn't sure, though she suspects not. He's not the type who would have been that successful in life, who would have been able to charm and connive his way into impressive financial well-being.
Like her father did.
He would have dreamt of it, though. Would have felt it was his due. That's probably a large part of why he's here.
"You wanted me?" she murmurs.
"Sit down," he offers, with a broad, oily smile, gesturing with a sweeping hand toward one of the red-black leather club chairs. "Make yourself comfortable. Drink?"
"No."
Perception, she thinks: there's no food or drink here, no need for it, being that they're dead, that everyone here is dead, some of them for millennia. What's the point in imagining you're holding a snifter of Remy Martin? Of imagining you're smoking a fine, fragrant Cuban cigar? It doesn't make this place any more tolerable, any easier to endure.
That's the whole point of Hell, isn't it? The lack of ease and comfort? The piling on of torment?
"Suit yourself," Crowley shrugs.
Half of Hell lives in terror of his whims. The other half regards him as a monumental joke, one who's likely to collect his comeuppance the moment Lucifer is set free. Pretender to the throne, she thinks. He's nothing but a con man, when you come down to it. Hasn't earned anything at all, down here - all he did was take full advantage of a vacancy in the ranks. Though… there's something to be said for that, she supposes. Most of the others cringe in the corners, behind their imagined rocks. Crowley went balls to the wall and took what he wanted.
Like a good many pretenders before him, he'll likely stop at nothing to defend what's temporarily his. To quash any stirrings of dissent before they come of age.
"You've held up well," he observes, twirling cognac in the belly of his glass.
"Have I?"
"I've had an eye on you, you know. From the day we first set eyes on each other."
The day she brought him the Colt. She should have used it on him, she's thought more than once. Lilith might have taken offense, but what would that matter? Lilith's dead now, murdered by the Winchesters. Given what's happened since then, Lucifer's first-born might have welcomed the elimination of a worm like Crowley, but who knows. This place, and the machinations of the beings who occupy it, is as convoluted and as impossible to predict as the Tudor court, back in the days of Bluff King Hal.
"Who would you like to be, if you had the choice?" Crowley asks.
She frowns at him. Thinks hard about the Colt, the heft of it, the chill of that smooth steel in the palm of her hand.
Half of the black hearts in this place would applaud his death.
A rewarding sound, that.
Applause.
"Sweetheart," he says again, and this time there's an entirely different symphony of meaning in that single word of endearment. "I saw something in you, you know. That day in the rain."
"I reminded you of yourself, is that it?"
He chuckles.
The movement of the glass catches the light of the fire leaping behind him, something that's at once captivating and alarming. As was true in Henry's court, attracting the attention of the king can mean elevation or downfall, either thing executed with the speed of a bullet train.
"I like you," Crowley says. "You confounded them."
"Sam and Dean," she guesses.
"Hmm."
"Care to continue?"
Thinking of it doesn't transport her there, but the memory's as clear as the details of Crowley's conjured manor house. A musty, colorless hotel room in Maine. The angry set of Dean's face, words spoken in something close to a snarl. His gaze caught by something above her head and the immediate flood of recognition and dismay in his eyes.
His final judgment. You're not worth it.
Plain, on the face of it. You're not worth it: the echo of something she'd felt about herself for most of her twenty-four years. Not worth the good, nor the bad. Not deserving of what she received, of what was forced on her, or of the way her protests were ignored or sneered at, or dismissed with persuasion as smooth as Crowley's swirling cognac.
We're all going to Hell, she told Dean Winchester the day she met him.
And here she is.
"They've decimated the ranks, damn them," Crowley says. "Taken out nearly a dozen of my best salesmen." Mournfully, he sighs, "All those opportunities - all those pathetic souls ripe for the taking, and no one available to hear their tales of woe. No one to offer them a boost up the ladder, in exchange for a very reasonable price." Smiling then, he settles into one of the club chairs and crosses one leg over the other. "Fancy a promotion, my love?"
"To -"
"Crossroads demon. It'll get you out of here."
"What if I like it here?"
"Darling. No one likes it here." When she demurs, he says, "You'll need something to ride. Pick anyone you like. Blonde? Redhead? Hell, pick a pretty boy if you like. You're rid of the flesh your well-roasted parents gave you. Rid of their name. So - be anyone you choose. Enjoy the fresh air and sunlight. Just… bring me some souls. Will you?"
"You want me to bring you Sam and Dean."
"Not likely," Crowley sighs. "But I'll admit, there's something attractive about the challenge."
She remembers green eyes.
Remembers the shock in them, the pure, clean horror. The sudden change of mind. The dismissal that was both pity and nothing like that at all.
"Where do I sign?" she asks softly.
"A kiss will do just fine," the King of Hell replies.
* * * * *
"I reminded you of yourself, is that it?"
CHARACTERS: Bela and Crowley
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1092 words
PROMOTION
By Carol Davis
There's no point in asking Who? when they say He wants to see you. There's just one He these days. The others have all been eliminated; there's just one dog at the top of this heap.
The King of Hell.
Nor is there any point in asking Where?
There's no "here" here, she thinks as she turns her attention toward Him, the royal He, the top dog of this eternal shitpile - no place that's distinct from any other place. It's all perception, nothing more; all she has to do is think of him and she's immediately there.
"Sweetheart," he oozes.
He's in the library of his manor house, all dark wood and leather, shadows and subtle smells. Whether Crowley's earthly self ever owned something like it, she isn't sure, though she suspects not. He's not the type who would have been that successful in life, who would have been able to charm and connive his way into impressive financial well-being.
Like her father did.
He would have dreamt of it, though. Would have felt it was his due. That's probably a large part of why he's here.
"You wanted me?" she murmurs.
"Sit down," he offers, with a broad, oily smile, gesturing with a sweeping hand toward one of the red-black leather club chairs. "Make yourself comfortable. Drink?"
"No."
Perception, she thinks: there's no food or drink here, no need for it, being that they're dead, that everyone here is dead, some of them for millennia. What's the point in imagining you're holding a snifter of Remy Martin? Of imagining you're smoking a fine, fragrant Cuban cigar? It doesn't make this place any more tolerable, any easier to endure.
That's the whole point of Hell, isn't it? The lack of ease and comfort? The piling on of torment?
"Suit yourself," Crowley shrugs.
Half of Hell lives in terror of his whims. The other half regards him as a monumental joke, one who's likely to collect his comeuppance the moment Lucifer is set free. Pretender to the throne, she thinks. He's nothing but a con man, when you come down to it. Hasn't earned anything at all, down here - all he did was take full advantage of a vacancy in the ranks. Though… there's something to be said for that, she supposes. Most of the others cringe in the corners, behind their imagined rocks. Crowley went balls to the wall and took what he wanted.
Like a good many pretenders before him, he'll likely stop at nothing to defend what's temporarily his. To quash any stirrings of dissent before they come of age.
"You've held up well," he observes, twirling cognac in the belly of his glass.
"Have I?"
"I've had an eye on you, you know. From the day we first set eyes on each other."
The day she brought him the Colt. She should have used it on him, she's thought more than once. Lilith might have taken offense, but what would that matter? Lilith's dead now, murdered by the Winchesters. Given what's happened since then, Lucifer's first-born might have welcomed the elimination of a worm like Crowley, but who knows. This place, and the machinations of the beings who occupy it, is as convoluted and as impossible to predict as the Tudor court, back in the days of Bluff King Hal.
"Who would you like to be, if you had the choice?" Crowley asks.
She frowns at him. Thinks hard about the Colt, the heft of it, the chill of that smooth steel in the palm of her hand.
Half of the black hearts in this place would applaud his death.
A rewarding sound, that.
Applause.
"Sweetheart," he says again, and this time there's an entirely different symphony of meaning in that single word of endearment. "I saw something in you, you know. That day in the rain."
"I reminded you of yourself, is that it?"
He chuckles.
The movement of the glass catches the light of the fire leaping behind him, something that's at once captivating and alarming. As was true in Henry's court, attracting the attention of the king can mean elevation or downfall, either thing executed with the speed of a bullet train.
"I like you," Crowley says. "You confounded them."
"Sam and Dean," she guesses.
"Hmm."
"Care to continue?"
Thinking of it doesn't transport her there, but the memory's as clear as the details of Crowley's conjured manor house. A musty, colorless hotel room in Maine. The angry set of Dean's face, words spoken in something close to a snarl. His gaze caught by something above her head and the immediate flood of recognition and dismay in his eyes.
His final judgment. You're not worth it.
Plain, on the face of it. You're not worth it: the echo of something she'd felt about herself for most of her twenty-four years. Not worth the good, nor the bad. Not deserving of what she received, of what was forced on her, or of the way her protests were ignored or sneered at, or dismissed with persuasion as smooth as Crowley's swirling cognac.
We're all going to Hell, she told Dean Winchester the day she met him.
And here she is.
"They've decimated the ranks, damn them," Crowley says. "Taken out nearly a dozen of my best salesmen." Mournfully, he sighs, "All those opportunities - all those pathetic souls ripe for the taking, and no one available to hear their tales of woe. No one to offer them a boost up the ladder, in exchange for a very reasonable price." Smiling then, he settles into one of the club chairs and crosses one leg over the other. "Fancy a promotion, my love?"
"To -"
"Crossroads demon. It'll get you out of here."
"What if I like it here?"
"Darling. No one likes it here." When she demurs, he says, "You'll need something to ride. Pick anyone you like. Blonde? Redhead? Hell, pick a pretty boy if you like. You're rid of the flesh your well-roasted parents gave you. Rid of their name. So - be anyone you choose. Enjoy the fresh air and sunlight. Just… bring me some souls. Will you?"
"You want me to bring you Sam and Dean."
"Not likely," Crowley sighs. "But I'll admit, there's something attractive about the challenge."
She remembers green eyes.
Remembers the shock in them, the pure, clean horror. The sudden change of mind. The dismissal that was both pity and nothing like that at all.
"Where do I sign?" she asks softly.
"A kiss will do just fine," the King of Hell replies.
* * * * *