Fic: Falling From Grace Isn't Pretty {5}
Title: Falling From Grace Isn't Pretty Ch.5 ( Ch.1| Ch.2| Ch.3| Ch.4)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Destiel (develops later), mentions of past Sam/Jess and Dean/Many
Rating: M (eventually)
Warnings: Cursing, gore, vamp/vamphunter!fic, slash, loss of faith in God, no beta
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and I am not making any profit from this story.
Summary: Father Castiel should have known that one day his do-good attitude would do him bad, but he didn't expect it to land him in this mess.
Word Count (for chapter): 3,380
The pill was a small reminder on the back of his tongue; pathetically tasteless and dull, smooth and tiny. With a swallow of water it slid down his throat and down to his stomach. Castiel placed the half-drunk glass on the counter top, and forced the almost empty tray of pills into their box.
It was seven months since Castiel had had his encounter with the supernatural. He couldn't really say that things had got better since then, because they really hadn't.
The box took it's place in the cupboard, 'FLUOXETINE' staring at his tired eyes mockingly.
Yeah, things really hadn't got better at all.
Draining his glass of water he placed it beside the sink on top of the small pile of washing that had already gathered after breakfast, and dusted his hands off over the empty basin before bringing them to his tie and tugging it closer to his neck. It had taken a little while to get used to not wearing his white collar, but after the first three months it soon became normal to have less restriction around his adams apple. Yeah, he had given up his job at the church. It was odd, really. He had never thought he would have been like the rest of his family; far from the church, even devoid of faith.
Of course it had meant that he was open to conversing with them again. It was still strange, awkward and crippled. But they had seen fit to rent out to him a small apartment in a new city, a new state. A new life.
Castiel checked his watch to find the time, and then frogmarched to the door, forced his feet into his shoes, and made off out of the flat. As he closed the door his eyes brushed over a photograph hanging from a wonky nail on the wall. His own face smiled at him stiffly back at him, a blonde woman cushioning her head in his neck. Her name was Lydia. She was a thirty-nine year old divorcee he had met on plentymore.com, and their romance was one that was founded on the base desire for sex and a façade of compatibility. It was a stiff, dwindling relationship that had reached it's peak on the second date and headed steadily downhill from there. It was now flat-lining. He supposed that he should really break it off. Unfortunately for him she was clingy, and she had a kid, and he really couldn't bring himself to do something so heartless, his old habits sticking to him like limpets.
The bus ride was damp and cramped, his shoulders pressed tightly against a cold window and the beefy biceps of a thick-set builder. It drizzled miserably over the window, water drops seeping through tiny cracks in the moulding of the pane and flooding down the wall. His socks were wet by the time he reached his stop and ran the few metres to the entrance to the hotel.
He was a secretary of sorts. He assigned rooms. He stood or sat there and looked presentable and pretty. It was a horrible job, and not at all a career. He was just glad he wasn't a chambermaid. That was a job he would never advise taking to anyone, not even his worst enemy.
And Castiel could have enemies now. Or, rather, he allowed himself to indulge in having enemies. In disliking. In loathing. There was something wonderful about calling someone an ass, and scowling when he was in a bad mood. Something freeing about taking charge of his own emotions and being responsible for them. He still couldn't quite grasp schadenfreude without feeling guilty, however. There was something about it that just seemed inherently immoral, and it rubbed him up the wrong way. Despite losing his faith images of demons would always spring to mind at the thought; fat and ugly and pointing crooked fingers over their red, rounded bellies at those who suffered misfortune whilst cackling.
So he went about his day as he usually did; with quite a bit of anger and a whole lot of being fed up. Really, could you blame him? His whole job consisted of booking people in and out of rooms and making coffee for his workmates. And many of the people he booked in were quite impatient. Some of them smelled bad, too, which was never pleasant. And the coffee machine broke about halfway through his shift, too, and spilt hot water all over the floor, so he had to call maintenance, and they took a long time to arrive - not to mention that they were then slow at mopping everything up. A coffee would have calmed him right down, but of course the machine was broken wasn't it? That was the source of the whole fiasco.
It was safe to say that by the end of the day Castiel was more than happy to go back to his home - and yes, that run down apartment was home - and yank his tie off, throw his red jacket over the back of a chair, and collapse in front of the television with a take-away burger for dinner and a crappy television programme for company - the host all overly whitened teeth and forced laughter. What he hadn't expected was a visitor, or visitors. But that was later.
He brushed his teeth, washed his face, pulled on an old, creased blue t-shirt and a pair of plaid pyjama trousers, and plodded to the bedroom. His bed hovered over three plastic storage boxes. Through the misted sides Castiel could faintly make out the change in colour from black to grey. By now his quite strange and frightening knife collection had taken up two boxes and the third stored - he felt sick thinking about it - dead man's blood. Luckily he hadn't had the chance to use any of this 'equipment' yet.
After Castiel had been forced from Bobby's home he had thought. He had thought a lot. First he had thought about how he would become a hunter any way, without the help of Bobby, Dean or Sam. Then, when he stumbled back into his church and was received with worried touches and staring eyes, the people of his parish all too caring and not at all understanding, he thought differently.
He was a vicar. He was a man of God. There was no way that he would become a hunter. He would continue as he always did, and he kept a butcher's knife under his pillow out of sheer paranoia. But of course that fell apart all too quickly.
Castiel didn't really like to think of it. After all, he supposed that he had fallen from grace, and that was painful and disappointing. However on nights like these, bored by his humdrum life and sick of the every-day domestic routine he existed in, it was hard to stop it.
The words had become bitter in his mouth. The teachings lost their meaning. Each night he would pray for understanding...but none came.
It is an odd sensation, losing faith. One which he would never like to experience again. It is full of pain and anger, and the sour taste of resentment and disappointment. Castiel was stuck in a wrap of his own confusion, feeling both the need to rip himself away from everything he knew and cling to it with all of his strength. He didn't want to go, yet he needed to leave. It was traumatic. It was life changing.
When he had left he wasn't really bothered about being a man of God any more. He wasn't bothered by anything. He turned to his family - Anna being the first to accept contact from him and guide him into a comfortable existence. He thought long and hard about taking to the road. About going back to Bobby in Sioux Falls and begging, forcing, bargaining his way into a training programme. About going in guns blazing and hoping that he succeeded in killing a couple of vampires and then making a hobby out of it. In the end his defeatist attitude - fueled by his depression - meant he did exactly as Dean told him to. He armed himself enough to be safe and lived an apple-pie life. He tried to find a woman. He got a job. He would very occasionally watch football on TV.
Castiel fell asleep to black memories.
And he awoke to a full-body prickling. His dream left his mind swimming in half-thoughts, the odd memory of scent and sight and sound reverberating in his consciousness. Since he had begun taking his medicine they had become much more vivid. He stilled and blinked his eyes into the still darkness until he could see the hulking shapes of the surrounding furniture, not a single thing out of place and no intruder encroaching upon his vulnerable form. He prickled again, worry settling in his gut like lead, just as poisonous and heavy.
He slipped out of the bedcovers, and onto the floor, as quiet as he could possibly be. He had done this a couple of times before, the result always the same. Castiel would stalk the whole of his apartment with a blade, find nothing, and go back to bed, unable to sleep until morning came. He didn't really expect to find anything.
The box rolled over the worn carpet towards him easily and quite quietly. He unclipped the lid. Before him lay a medley of knives, daggers and long, long blades. He carefully drew one into his hands. There was a slight clanking noise. He winced and froze, the hum of metal ringing in the room for a moment before he touched his fingers to the side of the blade and stopped it, plunging him into silence again. There was an answering click from the kitchen on the other side of the wall. Every muscle in Castiel's body seized up and jarred. He stopped breathing.
He knelt there for moments until his knees ached with his weight and he had to take in a long, shuddering breath. Unsteadily climbing to his feet he turned and faced the door, a ghostly white with a brass handle. He placed his hand on the cool metal, the cold seeping up into his hand from his fingertips. With a deep, steadying breath he opened the door slowly, glad it didn't creak or groan, and slipped into the hallway.
The kitchen door was open, a sliver of counter visible in the half-light pouring in through uncovered windows. Castiel breathed steadily through his nose, both hands coming to grip the handle of the large knife. The grooves slid against the flesh of his palm, fingers settling into the mould of the plastic. He tightened his grip until it ached, panic rising up in his throat. There could be something there. This wouldn't be like the other times. He was in danger of becoming a meal all over again.
There was sweat seeping through the flesh of his palms and slipping against the plastic. He bit at his lips, the inside of his cheek slipping and catching between his molars. He inched towards the kitchen door, bare toes dragging against the laminate with a slip, slip, slip, each step accented by his breathing, and the occasional sound coming from the kitchen.
Castiel's heart was beating heavy and hard in his throat and on the back of his tongue. It throbbed in his ears, every sound magnified by his fear.
Something skidded over a countertop. Castiel stood at the entrance to the kitchen and hesitated, fear gripping him tight with icy tentacles and rooting him there against the laminate floor and the off-white wall. His fridge kicked into life and began humming, ticking, but there were obvious signs of movement other than that. There was now definitely something in there. He was sure of it.
He took three shaky breaths through his mouth, courage sparking into his toes and body. Then he turned on the spot, slammed through the door with his knife in front of him, and fumbled wildly on the wall until he could flip on the light switch.
Before his eyes the room lit up, and in the middle of the small room stood a man. An all too familiar man. He froze as the image jumped to mind and he remembered. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. He had really been hoping that there wasn't anything there. His breath caught in his throat.
“Hello Castiel.” The man said, and gave a tight quirk of his lips, looking up at him, head tilted and his hand resting on the counter top, fingers pressed hard against the plastic. He was shockingly British, a stark contrast against the American landscape.
Castiel swallowed thickly.
“I'm Crowley.” The man purred, and straightened, looking at the knife that Castiel still held outstretched.
“Right.” Castiel whispered, breathless.
“I trust you know what I am.”
Castiel nodded slowly, eyes still trained on the face that had appeared to him those months ago when he was tied to a chair in a motel room.
“And I know who you are.” Crowley said, and smiled easily. “You're the one who got away.”
“You've come to-?”
“Eat you?” Crowley gave a small laugh, and his teeth were revealed, sharper than human but not the second, deadly and purely vampiric layer. “No, no. You're much more than a one-night stand. I want you for much longer. I have plans, Castiel.”
“...Pl-”
“Plans. Yes, Castiel. You see you weren't meant to be a meal for small-fry, but something went wrong. They got sloppy. Don't worry - all of those the damned Winchesters didn't kill were disposed of afterwards. I run a tight ship.” Crowley meandered forwards, and despite being quite short he was still threatening. Castiel held the knife out in a more firm manner. Crowley's eyes focused on the point, and then flicked back up to Castiel's face, raking over and focusing uncomfortably long on his neck and lips. “You know, I'm actually almost thankful to the Winchesters for dragging you out of there, or things could have gone terribly wrong. They still could go wrong.”
Castiel chose to remain silent, knife held out and mind frozen. Crowley continued to stroke his eyes over the flesh revealed to him.
“You've changed a lot.” He said, almost conversationally.
Castiel refused to reply.
“But not to mind, it's nothing we can't work past. Now, how about we get some revenge.”
When Castiel once again remained silent Crowley turned to one side, pretending to look over the bare walls, eyes flitting over the blemishes in the pale green paint.
“You do want revenge, don't you?” He asked, and waved a gloved hand in the air. “You had so much, and now it's all gone.”
“Because of vampires.” Castiel said, his voice gaining some firmness.
Crowley laughed. “No. No, you could have survived that. You're not that weak. What ruined you was the Winchesters.”
“No-” Castiel began, because that was completely wrong.
“Yes. You see, I know that you're hurt. I know they hurt you. They tossed you aside like a used Johnny and that was the end of that. Your whole world was shaken, and they just told you to get on with your life.” Crowley rolled his head on his shoulders until his eyes made contact with Castiel's. “They abandoned you when you were weak. And,” he added, “they wiped out a nest of mine in the process. Not to mention the damage they've done before and after that event. We have a goal in common, Castiel.”
“We don't.” Castiel's hand was aching around the knife's handle, and he flexed his fingers as his shoulder stiffened from not moving.
“Oh, we do. And I'll prove it to you.” Crowley said, and then he smiled languidly, and let the hand in the air fall down. It landed on an invisible plain with an audible pat. “Go on, boy.”
Castiel frowned, the air beside Crowley seeming completely harmless. Then a growl, low and deep, emitted from the gap between Crowley's hand and the floor. Castiel's heart leapt into his throat and he tensed, the knife in his hand wavering. Crowley smirked.
In an instant there was movement. One of his cheap dining chairs scraped over the floor at an invisible impact and toppled against the wall. Crowley's long coat swished. Something scratched against the ceramic tiles. Castiel turned to run, but before he could get far a weight hit him in the back, and he fell, elbow slamming against the hard floor and the knife skidding over the laminate and into the moulding. Hot, rancid and moist air puffed over the back of his neck as he was pinned down. Two thick, heavy trunks pressed over his shoulder blades, both searing hot and icy cold at the same time. Castiel cried out in pain, arm twisted beneath him oddly.
“Careful there, boy, don't want to damage him.” He could hear Crowley saying behind him, and the invisible beast above let out another rumbling growl. Phantom wetness slithered down the side of his neck with another puff of air. Castiel grit his teeth and clenched his hands. There were footsteps. Crowley crouched by Castiel's side and the once Holy Man turned his head to look at him, reaching a hand out to grab at his ankle. He received a smirk.
“Night night, Castiel. I'll see you in a little bit.”
A cloth was pressed over Castiel's nose and his mouth, and he tried to pull away, to not breathe, but the beast ontop of him placed unseeable jaws around his neck, dangerous teeth pressing against the delicate flesh, holding him in place. Castiel only took one small inhale and felt himself slipping away. Claws dug into his back and ripped the flesh, and he was out.
*
When Castiel came to Crowley was pacing the space before him, hands steepled and pressed to his thin lips. His back ached dreadfully, raw and split open, and cramped from where his arms were manipulated into an awkward position, hands bound. His head was misted by drugs and pain. He shoved his tongue up between his teeth and lip to check for an extra layer of retractable, deadly teeth.
He was human.
Crowley threw a glance at him, but remained silent, pacing. Turning swiftly and dramatically on his heel when he reached one side of the room and going back the way he came. Waiting.
Castiel took the time of silence to notice his surroundings. He was still in his apartment, tied to one of the dining chairs that had been moved to the living area. The room was undisturbed but for the nauseating trail of blood that had no doubt come from his back. The invisible creature was obviously on his sofa, the cushions caving under its weight. Castiel swallowed thickly.
After a few moments of sitting in silence Crowley stopped pacing, his head lifting away from his fingers, and sniffed the air deeply.
“Here we are.” He crooned, and relaxed, striding over to Castiel, who leant away as far as his binds would allow him. Crowley circled him and stood at his back, gloved hands coming to rest heavily on each shoulder. “Look pretty, you have visitors.”
Castiel stared ahead of him at the hall expectantly, having absolutely no idea who would come in and fearing whatever it might be. The beast whined and leapt from the couch, galloping off to hide in the apartment. Only three seconds later there was the snick of the lock being picked and the door opened with a slight, high-pitched whine. Guns first, two figures moved into the room. Castiel instantly recognised them as Sam and Dean. He sucked in a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
“Hello, boys.” Crowley said from behind him, and his hands tightened on Castiel's shoulders. “Where is that lovely bear of yours?”
Sam and Dean remained silent, guns trained on Crowley.
“Oh yes. I forgot that he doesn't do so well with stairs any more.” Crowley said, and his voice dripped with sickeningly sweet artificial syrup. “Such a shame.”
“Crowley.” Sam acknowledged, gun steady.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Destiel (develops later), mentions of past Sam/Jess and Dean/Many
Rating: M (eventually)
Warnings: Cursing, gore, vamp/vamphunter!fic, slash, loss of faith in God, no beta
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and I am not making any profit from this story.
Summary: Father Castiel should have known that one day his do-good attitude would do him bad, but he didn't expect it to land him in this mess.
Word Count (for chapter): 3,380
The pill was a small reminder on the back of his tongue; pathetically tasteless and dull, smooth and tiny. With a swallow of water it slid down his throat and down to his stomach. Castiel placed the half-drunk glass on the counter top, and forced the almost empty tray of pills into their box.
It was seven months since Castiel had had his encounter with the supernatural. He couldn't really say that things had got better since then, because they really hadn't.
The box took it's place in the cupboard, 'FLUOXETINE' staring at his tired eyes mockingly.
Yeah, things really hadn't got better at all.
Draining his glass of water he placed it beside the sink on top of the small pile of washing that had already gathered after breakfast, and dusted his hands off over the empty basin before bringing them to his tie and tugging it closer to his neck. It had taken a little while to get used to not wearing his white collar, but after the first three months it soon became normal to have less restriction around his adams apple. Yeah, he had given up his job at the church. It was odd, really. He had never thought he would have been like the rest of his family; far from the church, even devoid of faith.
Of course it had meant that he was open to conversing with them again. It was still strange, awkward and crippled. But they had seen fit to rent out to him a small apartment in a new city, a new state. A new life.
Castiel checked his watch to find the time, and then frogmarched to the door, forced his feet into his shoes, and made off out of the flat. As he closed the door his eyes brushed over a photograph hanging from a wonky nail on the wall. His own face smiled at him stiffly back at him, a blonde woman cushioning her head in his neck. Her name was Lydia. She was a thirty-nine year old divorcee he had met on plentymore.com, and their romance was one that was founded on the base desire for sex and a façade of compatibility. It was a stiff, dwindling relationship that had reached it's peak on the second date and headed steadily downhill from there. It was now flat-lining. He supposed that he should really break it off. Unfortunately for him she was clingy, and she had a kid, and he really couldn't bring himself to do something so heartless, his old habits sticking to him like limpets.
The bus ride was damp and cramped, his shoulders pressed tightly against a cold window and the beefy biceps of a thick-set builder. It drizzled miserably over the window, water drops seeping through tiny cracks in the moulding of the pane and flooding down the wall. His socks were wet by the time he reached his stop and ran the few metres to the entrance to the hotel.
He was a secretary of sorts. He assigned rooms. He stood or sat there and looked presentable and pretty. It was a horrible job, and not at all a career. He was just glad he wasn't a chambermaid. That was a job he would never advise taking to anyone, not even his worst enemy.
And Castiel could have enemies now. Or, rather, he allowed himself to indulge in having enemies. In disliking. In loathing. There was something wonderful about calling someone an ass, and scowling when he was in a bad mood. Something freeing about taking charge of his own emotions and being responsible for them. He still couldn't quite grasp schadenfreude without feeling guilty, however. There was something about it that just seemed inherently immoral, and it rubbed him up the wrong way. Despite losing his faith images of demons would always spring to mind at the thought; fat and ugly and pointing crooked fingers over their red, rounded bellies at those who suffered misfortune whilst cackling.
So he went about his day as he usually did; with quite a bit of anger and a whole lot of being fed up. Really, could you blame him? His whole job consisted of booking people in and out of rooms and making coffee for his workmates. And many of the people he booked in were quite impatient. Some of them smelled bad, too, which was never pleasant. And the coffee machine broke about halfway through his shift, too, and spilt hot water all over the floor, so he had to call maintenance, and they took a long time to arrive - not to mention that they were then slow at mopping everything up. A coffee would have calmed him right down, but of course the machine was broken wasn't it? That was the source of the whole fiasco.
It was safe to say that by the end of the day Castiel was more than happy to go back to his home - and yes, that run down apartment was home - and yank his tie off, throw his red jacket over the back of a chair, and collapse in front of the television with a take-away burger for dinner and a crappy television programme for company - the host all overly whitened teeth and forced laughter. What he hadn't expected was a visitor, or visitors. But that was later.
He brushed his teeth, washed his face, pulled on an old, creased blue t-shirt and a pair of plaid pyjama trousers, and plodded to the bedroom. His bed hovered over three plastic storage boxes. Through the misted sides Castiel could faintly make out the change in colour from black to grey. By now his quite strange and frightening knife collection had taken up two boxes and the third stored - he felt sick thinking about it - dead man's blood. Luckily he hadn't had the chance to use any of this 'equipment' yet.
After Castiel had been forced from Bobby's home he had thought. He had thought a lot. First he had thought about how he would become a hunter any way, without the help of Bobby, Dean or Sam. Then, when he stumbled back into his church and was received with worried touches and staring eyes, the people of his parish all too caring and not at all understanding, he thought differently.
He was a vicar. He was a man of God. There was no way that he would become a hunter. He would continue as he always did, and he kept a butcher's knife under his pillow out of sheer paranoia. But of course that fell apart all too quickly.
Castiel didn't really like to think of it. After all, he supposed that he had fallen from grace, and that was painful and disappointing. However on nights like these, bored by his humdrum life and sick of the every-day domestic routine he existed in, it was hard to stop it.
The words had become bitter in his mouth. The teachings lost their meaning. Each night he would pray for understanding...but none came.
It is an odd sensation, losing faith. One which he would never like to experience again. It is full of pain and anger, and the sour taste of resentment and disappointment. Castiel was stuck in a wrap of his own confusion, feeling both the need to rip himself away from everything he knew and cling to it with all of his strength. He didn't want to go, yet he needed to leave. It was traumatic. It was life changing.
When he had left he wasn't really bothered about being a man of God any more. He wasn't bothered by anything. He turned to his family - Anna being the first to accept contact from him and guide him into a comfortable existence. He thought long and hard about taking to the road. About going back to Bobby in Sioux Falls and begging, forcing, bargaining his way into a training programme. About going in guns blazing and hoping that he succeeded in killing a couple of vampires and then making a hobby out of it. In the end his defeatist attitude - fueled by his depression - meant he did exactly as Dean told him to. He armed himself enough to be safe and lived an apple-pie life. He tried to find a woman. He got a job. He would very occasionally watch football on TV.
Castiel fell asleep to black memories.
And he awoke to a full-body prickling. His dream left his mind swimming in half-thoughts, the odd memory of scent and sight and sound reverberating in his consciousness. Since he had begun taking his medicine they had become much more vivid. He stilled and blinked his eyes into the still darkness until he could see the hulking shapes of the surrounding furniture, not a single thing out of place and no intruder encroaching upon his vulnerable form. He prickled again, worry settling in his gut like lead, just as poisonous and heavy.
He slipped out of the bedcovers, and onto the floor, as quiet as he could possibly be. He had done this a couple of times before, the result always the same. Castiel would stalk the whole of his apartment with a blade, find nothing, and go back to bed, unable to sleep until morning came. He didn't really expect to find anything.
The box rolled over the worn carpet towards him easily and quite quietly. He unclipped the lid. Before him lay a medley of knives, daggers and long, long blades. He carefully drew one into his hands. There was a slight clanking noise. He winced and froze, the hum of metal ringing in the room for a moment before he touched his fingers to the side of the blade and stopped it, plunging him into silence again. There was an answering click from the kitchen on the other side of the wall. Every muscle in Castiel's body seized up and jarred. He stopped breathing.
He knelt there for moments until his knees ached with his weight and he had to take in a long, shuddering breath. Unsteadily climbing to his feet he turned and faced the door, a ghostly white with a brass handle. He placed his hand on the cool metal, the cold seeping up into his hand from his fingertips. With a deep, steadying breath he opened the door slowly, glad it didn't creak or groan, and slipped into the hallway.
The kitchen door was open, a sliver of counter visible in the half-light pouring in through uncovered windows. Castiel breathed steadily through his nose, both hands coming to grip the handle of the large knife. The grooves slid against the flesh of his palm, fingers settling into the mould of the plastic. He tightened his grip until it ached, panic rising up in his throat. There could be something there. This wouldn't be like the other times. He was in danger of becoming a meal all over again.
There was sweat seeping through the flesh of his palms and slipping against the plastic. He bit at his lips, the inside of his cheek slipping and catching between his molars. He inched towards the kitchen door, bare toes dragging against the laminate with a slip, slip, slip, each step accented by his breathing, and the occasional sound coming from the kitchen.
Castiel's heart was beating heavy and hard in his throat and on the back of his tongue. It throbbed in his ears, every sound magnified by his fear.
Something skidded over a countertop. Castiel stood at the entrance to the kitchen and hesitated, fear gripping him tight with icy tentacles and rooting him there against the laminate floor and the off-white wall. His fridge kicked into life and began humming, ticking, but there were obvious signs of movement other than that. There was now definitely something in there. He was sure of it.
He took three shaky breaths through his mouth, courage sparking into his toes and body. Then he turned on the spot, slammed through the door with his knife in front of him, and fumbled wildly on the wall until he could flip on the light switch.
Before his eyes the room lit up, and in the middle of the small room stood a man. An all too familiar man. He froze as the image jumped to mind and he remembered. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. He had really been hoping that there wasn't anything there. His breath caught in his throat.
“Hello Castiel.” The man said, and gave a tight quirk of his lips, looking up at him, head tilted and his hand resting on the counter top, fingers pressed hard against the plastic. He was shockingly British, a stark contrast against the American landscape.
Castiel swallowed thickly.
“I'm Crowley.” The man purred, and straightened, looking at the knife that Castiel still held outstretched.
“Right.” Castiel whispered, breathless.
“I trust you know what I am.”
Castiel nodded slowly, eyes still trained on the face that had appeared to him those months ago when he was tied to a chair in a motel room.
“And I know who you are.” Crowley said, and smiled easily. “You're the one who got away.”
“You've come to-?”
“Eat you?” Crowley gave a small laugh, and his teeth were revealed, sharper than human but not the second, deadly and purely vampiric layer. “No, no. You're much more than a one-night stand. I want you for much longer. I have plans, Castiel.”
“...Pl-”
“Plans. Yes, Castiel. You see you weren't meant to be a meal for small-fry, but something went wrong. They got sloppy. Don't worry - all of those the damned Winchesters didn't kill were disposed of afterwards. I run a tight ship.” Crowley meandered forwards, and despite being quite short he was still threatening. Castiel held the knife out in a more firm manner. Crowley's eyes focused on the point, and then flicked back up to Castiel's face, raking over and focusing uncomfortably long on his neck and lips. “You know, I'm actually almost thankful to the Winchesters for dragging you out of there, or things could have gone terribly wrong. They still could go wrong.”
Castiel chose to remain silent, knife held out and mind frozen. Crowley continued to stroke his eyes over the flesh revealed to him.
“You've changed a lot.” He said, almost conversationally.
Castiel refused to reply.
“But not to mind, it's nothing we can't work past. Now, how about we get some revenge.”
When Castiel once again remained silent Crowley turned to one side, pretending to look over the bare walls, eyes flitting over the blemishes in the pale green paint.
“You do want revenge, don't you?” He asked, and waved a gloved hand in the air. “You had so much, and now it's all gone.”
“Because of vampires.” Castiel said, his voice gaining some firmness.
Crowley laughed. “No. No, you could have survived that. You're not that weak. What ruined you was the Winchesters.”
“No-” Castiel began, because that was completely wrong.
“Yes. You see, I know that you're hurt. I know they hurt you. They tossed you aside like a used Johnny and that was the end of that. Your whole world was shaken, and they just told you to get on with your life.” Crowley rolled his head on his shoulders until his eyes made contact with Castiel's. “They abandoned you when you were weak. And,” he added, “they wiped out a nest of mine in the process. Not to mention the damage they've done before and after that event. We have a goal in common, Castiel.”
“We don't.” Castiel's hand was aching around the knife's handle, and he flexed his fingers as his shoulder stiffened from not moving.
“Oh, we do. And I'll prove it to you.” Crowley said, and then he smiled languidly, and let the hand in the air fall down. It landed on an invisible plain with an audible pat. “Go on, boy.”
Castiel frowned, the air beside Crowley seeming completely harmless. Then a growl, low and deep, emitted from the gap between Crowley's hand and the floor. Castiel's heart leapt into his throat and he tensed, the knife in his hand wavering. Crowley smirked.
In an instant there was movement. One of his cheap dining chairs scraped over the floor at an invisible impact and toppled against the wall. Crowley's long coat swished. Something scratched against the ceramic tiles. Castiel turned to run, but before he could get far a weight hit him in the back, and he fell, elbow slamming against the hard floor and the knife skidding over the laminate and into the moulding. Hot, rancid and moist air puffed over the back of his neck as he was pinned down. Two thick, heavy trunks pressed over his shoulder blades, both searing hot and icy cold at the same time. Castiel cried out in pain, arm twisted beneath him oddly.
“Careful there, boy, don't want to damage him.” He could hear Crowley saying behind him, and the invisible beast above let out another rumbling growl. Phantom wetness slithered down the side of his neck with another puff of air. Castiel grit his teeth and clenched his hands. There were footsteps. Crowley crouched by Castiel's side and the once Holy Man turned his head to look at him, reaching a hand out to grab at his ankle. He received a smirk.
“Night night, Castiel. I'll see you in a little bit.”
A cloth was pressed over Castiel's nose and his mouth, and he tried to pull away, to not breathe, but the beast ontop of him placed unseeable jaws around his neck, dangerous teeth pressing against the delicate flesh, holding him in place. Castiel only took one small inhale and felt himself slipping away. Claws dug into his back and ripped the flesh, and he was out.
*
When Castiel came to Crowley was pacing the space before him, hands steepled and pressed to his thin lips. His back ached dreadfully, raw and split open, and cramped from where his arms were manipulated into an awkward position, hands bound. His head was misted by drugs and pain. He shoved his tongue up between his teeth and lip to check for an extra layer of retractable, deadly teeth.
He was human.
Crowley threw a glance at him, but remained silent, pacing. Turning swiftly and dramatically on his heel when he reached one side of the room and going back the way he came. Waiting.
Castiel took the time of silence to notice his surroundings. He was still in his apartment, tied to one of the dining chairs that had been moved to the living area. The room was undisturbed but for the nauseating trail of blood that had no doubt come from his back. The invisible creature was obviously on his sofa, the cushions caving under its weight. Castiel swallowed thickly.
After a few moments of sitting in silence Crowley stopped pacing, his head lifting away from his fingers, and sniffed the air deeply.
“Here we are.” He crooned, and relaxed, striding over to Castiel, who leant away as far as his binds would allow him. Crowley circled him and stood at his back, gloved hands coming to rest heavily on each shoulder. “Look pretty, you have visitors.”
Castiel stared ahead of him at the hall expectantly, having absolutely no idea who would come in and fearing whatever it might be. The beast whined and leapt from the couch, galloping off to hide in the apartment. Only three seconds later there was the snick of the lock being picked and the door opened with a slight, high-pitched whine. Guns first, two figures moved into the room. Castiel instantly recognised them as Sam and Dean. He sucked in a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
“Hello, boys.” Crowley said from behind him, and his hands tightened on Castiel's shoulders. “Where is that lovely bear of yours?”
Sam and Dean remained silent, guns trained on Crowley.
“Oh yes. I forgot that he doesn't do so well with stairs any more.” Crowley said, and his voice dripped with sickeningly sweet artificial syrup. “Such a shame.”
“Crowley.” Sam acknowledged, gun steady.