hearts are made of broken glass--chapter four (Cas/Crow, Supernatural, PG-13
Title: Hearts Are Made Of Broken Glass
Chapter: 4/?? (updating every Monday--except for this one: Surprise! It's Wednesday! :P)
Author: pink_bagels
Genre: humour, drama
Pairing(s): Castiel/Crowley (eventually...kind of...), Dean/Crowley (eventually...kind of? o.O)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2009
Disclaimer: You kidding? I own nothing.
Warnings: Some spoilers for the seventh season and some deviation from canon at the end of the sixth.
Summary: Hell is no place for a brooding, guilty angel. So, Crowley sends Castiel on a crossroads mission. Big mistake.
hearts are made of broken glass--chapter four
Crowley stood silent, the mood in his dungeon infuriatingly awkward as he eyed the twitching burlap sack at Castiel's feet. He took a step closer to it, only to reel back as the impact of it hit him. "Ugh, it's disgusting." He held his sleeve at his nose and mouth, holding the stench back. "It positively reeks of the celestial."
"I had to bring it down in pieces for ease of transport." Crowley caught a moment's hesitation at this explanation, one which suggested the angel wasn't telling the whole truth. Those bloodied, dripping hands told quite a story, one that spoke of harshly metered out renderings of justice. To what purpose this all transpired was a mystery Crowley instinctively didn't want solved. He took a step back, every word he spoke carefully chosen.
"So you succeeded in that special assignment I gave you."
"The one where you believe you made a deal with a crossroads demon, yes it went satisfactorily." Castiel frowned, reflecting on it.
"Good." A sense of relief washed over Crowley and he rubbed his hands together in victory. "Everything is in alignment. Brilliant. Now we can get back to some proper torture sessions and misery. How do you feel about thumbscrews?"
"...However, I am not entirely sure that is what happened."
Damn him. Stupid, doubtful angel! "Of course it is," Crowley testily replied, a little stab of fear jutting into him. He shrugged the issue off, projecting an attitude of casual nonchalance, though he certainly didn't feel it. He gestured to his dungeon, complete with slabs, knives, bloodied aprons and Nickleback CDs. "I wouldn't be here doing the fantastic job I'm doing if it were otherwise."
"You were under the influence of a considerable amount of alcohol. It is understandable if the details remain hazy to you." Castiel took a step forward, leaving the twitching burlap sack behind him, his manner one of intense, rather frightening, scrutiny. Crowley found himself pressed against the stone wall, not the first time the angel had such effect on him, only this time it wasn't out of violence so much as a profound need for space. "You were obsessed with poultry," Castiel said.
"Really, Castiel, you did a fantastic job." Crowley gave him a tense smile that was more grimacing than pleasant. "I got a nice, slimy, stinking little shit hole of a cell all ready for you, complete with whips for self flagellation if that gets your torment rocks off. I can increase the Dean Winchester channel on your telly while you do it, and you can cry and howl and enjoy all the suffering you're so keen on experiencing. Whatever you want to shatter your being with, mate, it's none of my business, I'm not the one to judge."
"I am aware of how you died."
"Due to falling in a pile of muck, in my own sick, and I caught pneumonia as a result. Not exactly the most romantic of send-offs, but then, this is why you got the assignment and no one else. I was counting on your infamous discretion, my lovely, and would very much prefer you keep such dangerous knowledge to yourself!" Crowley's jaw worked over his anger, chewing on it, enjoying the way it was building up inside of him. "I'm warning you, if so much as a whisper of this gets out, I will hand you over to your Heavenly brothers who--I admit--will find far more creative ways to destroy you. They don't have a 'hands off the Winchesters' policy, last I looked."
Castiel remained expressionless. "That was not how you expired."
Crowley held up a warning finger, his fury morphing into fear and rage, seesawing back and forth between the two emotions so quickly it was making him sick. "Not one whisper!"
Castiel was not about to let the subject drop. "What happened was an unfortunate miscarriage of justice." The twitching burlap sack rolled onto its side, causing a sickening lurch in the pit of Crowley's being. He didn't like the way Castiel stood too close, too full of strength and understanding, the genuine sympathy the angel poured his way making Crowley's guts smart. "It was necessary to aright it." Castiel frowned, a piece of the puzzle that lay in the burlap heap on the floor of the dungeon working its way into his literal reasoning. "This putrescence found its way into Heaven, a facet that confuses me. It belongs here, in Hell, to suffer in agony at the lowest level of Hades. I do not understand how it circumvented this process." He placed his palms on the stone wall, bracing his arms on either side of Crowley, studying the demon with a scrutiny that made Crowley weak. "Fergus McLeod was not a bad man. I rather liked him."
"Then you obviously didn't know him very well," Crowley spat back. "As you have witnessed, he became perfectly capable at the unspeakable."
"He was not the one who performed the spell to call up a crossroads demon. He had no belief in such things. How can a deal be honoured when the contract has no bearing on the individual involved?" Castiel glanced back at the burlap sack, its seams seeping blood. "This is what belongs here. I have to wonder how it came to be that you wandered into this position, to suffer in Hell without questioning it."
Crowley felt his mouth go dry at this. He swallowed, his fury and fear a sandy rock sinking in his throat. The burlap sack was in his peripheral vision, twitching in shocked agony.
"What have you done?"
Castiel was unbending. "Heaven is no place for monsters."
No. He was not going to deal with this, he was not to going to let some stupid angel bully him into facing his past, not when it all it did was make him feel sick and dizzy and scared and just so fucking *weak*. Bastard. The damned bastard. He was going to rip his wings off, snap him in half...No, he'd like that, the suffering fool, he'd love every moment of it, paying his damned penance for all his prideful misdeeds. Imagine, the nerve of him, feeling sorry for Fergus, going off on some idiot crusade that no one asked of him and that damn well wasn't appreciated. He'd ruined everything! Stupid, stupid, stupid angel!
The burlap sack rolled, and Crowley fought the urge to gag as the stench of Heaven wafted off of it. He didn't want to be here, surrounded by Castiel's sanctimonious grace and that...thing...that once had a name. He wasn't about to honour it by even thinking it.
Castiel grabbed the ties on the burlap sack and began to unravel them. "I believe you will enjoy torturing this one," he said. "I imagine it will give you great satisfaction due to the personal connection."
Castiel couldn't be more wrong. What Crowley wanted more than anything right now was to be as far away from that disgusting chunky spew of celestial pus and that stupid angel as he could get, and he knew exactly where to go. There was no way Castiel was going to follow him.
///
Vile. Absolutely vile. But no matter, he would drink it anyway.
He downed the fourth bottle of Bobby Singer's rotgut and let it fall to the floor with a loud smash as he gathered up a few more. He'd argued the need for class and decorum in one's choice of drink, but at the moment he could concede that the rough edged human had a point. Sometimes, it was all about getting the job done. And what Crowley was working on, very diligently it must be added, was to get rip roaring pissed.
Heavy steps stomping on creaking wooden planks alerted Crowley to Bobby's presence, and he blearily staggered back as the grizzled man shot out a few choice curse words and brandished a shotgun full of rock salt. "Really, darling, is that a gun in your hand or are you just glad to see me?" The phrase seemed incredibly funny to Crowley, who nearly collapsed into a fit of giggling over it, his laughter whiskey-tinged and echoing across the metal walls of the container he'd tried to enclose himself in. He dropped the bottles of booze onto the cot and rubbed at his eyes before pointing to the open door. "Here, then, be a dear and close up shop, will you? Burnt me bloody hands on those Enochian symbols."
He held up his red and blistered palms so Bobby could see he was telling the truth, a fact that seemed to make the burly man even angrier instead of acquiescing.
"Just what in the fool hell do you think you're doing here?"
"I quit."
"What do you mean you quit? You can't just quit being the King of Hell." Bobby kept his gun cocked. "What game are you playing now?"
It was really quite interesting, this little bubble of metal and symbols the Winchesters and Singer had constructed in his basement. Kind of cozy, really, like camping out. There was a kettle plugged in to the far wall, and a few pleasant photos of waterfall scenery, a weirdly naturalist touch that had Sam Winchester written all over it. The bedding was clean, and there were several books stacked against the entrance, containing everything from a battered paperback edition of The Necromonicon to On The Road. He puzzled over a copy of American Psycho and almost put it back, only to toss it onto the cot to accompany the rest of his needs. Nothing like a bit of fun, light reading to round out a relaxing evening.
"True, I can't say that I quit, necessarily," he further explained. "More like I avoided a lay-off, considering my job is about to become redundant. Quitting was definitely the best option. Best move was to just leave it behind and go. Trust me, the severance package sucks."
"You can't stay here," Bobby growled.
"Yes, I can. You can't banish me. I'm here of my own free will." Crowley popped the cork on a fresh bottle of rotgut and downed a good portion of it before continuing. "Go ahead and try to exorcise me," he taunted. "I'll just pop right back in faster than you can say 'spiritus sancti'. Now, like I said, be a good old boy and shut that door."
Bobby lowered his gun, and let it fall to his side, his head shaking. "I don't get why you'd want to be locked up in here."
"I've been needing some me time."
Bobby wasn't buying it. He tore his bottle of rotgut out of Crowley's hand and slammed it onto the table beside him. "You're going to tell me what's going on. From where I'm standing, you're looking mighty frazzled, and that makes me nervous. I have to wonder what can make a demon shiver in his boots like you are, even if you are putting on the honey badger act."
Crowley frowned at this. "What's a honey badger got to do with anything?"
Bobby shrugged. "Honey Badger don't care. He don't give a shit."
"What are you talking about?"
"You got an iPhone and you don't keep up with internet memes? What kind of idjit are you?"
Crowley blinked and crookedly glanced at the various bottles he had left on the floor of Bobby's basement. They clearly packed a bigger punch than he'd expected.
"One stupid enough to allow a sparrow in my attic," Crowley bitterly replied. He collapsed onto the cot, the small metal room spinning. "Only he isn't a sparrow, is he? He's a hawk, that bastard. With a nasty rat caught in his talons."
Bobby wasn't about to let up. He aimed the barrel of his gun at Crowley's chest, determined to let the demon know he meant business.
"Who are you talking about?"
"Some stupid angel," Crowley said, the spinning room lulling him into a sense of blissful unconsciousness. "Thursday's child. Castiel."
Chapter: 4/?? (updating every Monday--except for this one: Surprise! It's Wednesday! :P)
Author: pink_bagels
Genre: humour, drama
Pairing(s): Castiel/Crowley (eventually...kind of...), Dean/Crowley (eventually...kind of? o.O)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2009
Disclaimer: You kidding? I own nothing.
Warnings: Some spoilers for the seventh season and some deviation from canon at the end of the sixth.
Summary: Hell is no place for a brooding, guilty angel. So, Crowley sends Castiel on a crossroads mission. Big mistake.
hearts are made of broken glass--chapter four
Crowley stood silent, the mood in his dungeon infuriatingly awkward as he eyed the twitching burlap sack at Castiel's feet. He took a step closer to it, only to reel back as the impact of it hit him. "Ugh, it's disgusting." He held his sleeve at his nose and mouth, holding the stench back. "It positively reeks of the celestial."
"I had to bring it down in pieces for ease of transport." Crowley caught a moment's hesitation at this explanation, one which suggested the angel wasn't telling the whole truth. Those bloodied, dripping hands told quite a story, one that spoke of harshly metered out renderings of justice. To what purpose this all transpired was a mystery Crowley instinctively didn't want solved. He took a step back, every word he spoke carefully chosen.
"So you succeeded in that special assignment I gave you."
"The one where you believe you made a deal with a crossroads demon, yes it went satisfactorily." Castiel frowned, reflecting on it.
"Good." A sense of relief washed over Crowley and he rubbed his hands together in victory. "Everything is in alignment. Brilliant. Now we can get back to some proper torture sessions and misery. How do you feel about thumbscrews?"
"...However, I am not entirely sure that is what happened."
Damn him. Stupid, doubtful angel! "Of course it is," Crowley testily replied, a little stab of fear jutting into him. He shrugged the issue off, projecting an attitude of casual nonchalance, though he certainly didn't feel it. He gestured to his dungeon, complete with slabs, knives, bloodied aprons and Nickleback CDs. "I wouldn't be here doing the fantastic job I'm doing if it were otherwise."
"You were under the influence of a considerable amount of alcohol. It is understandable if the details remain hazy to you." Castiel took a step forward, leaving the twitching burlap sack behind him, his manner one of intense, rather frightening, scrutiny. Crowley found himself pressed against the stone wall, not the first time the angel had such effect on him, only this time it wasn't out of violence so much as a profound need for space. "You were obsessed with poultry," Castiel said.
"Really, Castiel, you did a fantastic job." Crowley gave him a tense smile that was more grimacing than pleasant. "I got a nice, slimy, stinking little shit hole of a cell all ready for you, complete with whips for self flagellation if that gets your torment rocks off. I can increase the Dean Winchester channel on your telly while you do it, and you can cry and howl and enjoy all the suffering you're so keen on experiencing. Whatever you want to shatter your being with, mate, it's none of my business, I'm not the one to judge."
"I am aware of how you died."
"Due to falling in a pile of muck, in my own sick, and I caught pneumonia as a result. Not exactly the most romantic of send-offs, but then, this is why you got the assignment and no one else. I was counting on your infamous discretion, my lovely, and would very much prefer you keep such dangerous knowledge to yourself!" Crowley's jaw worked over his anger, chewing on it, enjoying the way it was building up inside of him. "I'm warning you, if so much as a whisper of this gets out, I will hand you over to your Heavenly brothers who--I admit--will find far more creative ways to destroy you. They don't have a 'hands off the Winchesters' policy, last I looked."
Castiel remained expressionless. "That was not how you expired."
Crowley held up a warning finger, his fury morphing into fear and rage, seesawing back and forth between the two emotions so quickly it was making him sick. "Not one whisper!"
Castiel was not about to let the subject drop. "What happened was an unfortunate miscarriage of justice." The twitching burlap sack rolled onto its side, causing a sickening lurch in the pit of Crowley's being. He didn't like the way Castiel stood too close, too full of strength and understanding, the genuine sympathy the angel poured his way making Crowley's guts smart. "It was necessary to aright it." Castiel frowned, a piece of the puzzle that lay in the burlap heap on the floor of the dungeon working its way into his literal reasoning. "This putrescence found its way into Heaven, a facet that confuses me. It belongs here, in Hell, to suffer in agony at the lowest level of Hades. I do not understand how it circumvented this process." He placed his palms on the stone wall, bracing his arms on either side of Crowley, studying the demon with a scrutiny that made Crowley weak. "Fergus McLeod was not a bad man. I rather liked him."
"Then you obviously didn't know him very well," Crowley spat back. "As you have witnessed, he became perfectly capable at the unspeakable."
"He was not the one who performed the spell to call up a crossroads demon. He had no belief in such things. How can a deal be honoured when the contract has no bearing on the individual involved?" Castiel glanced back at the burlap sack, its seams seeping blood. "This is what belongs here. I have to wonder how it came to be that you wandered into this position, to suffer in Hell without questioning it."
Crowley felt his mouth go dry at this. He swallowed, his fury and fear a sandy rock sinking in his throat. The burlap sack was in his peripheral vision, twitching in shocked agony.
"What have you done?"
Castiel was unbending. "Heaven is no place for monsters."
No. He was not going to deal with this, he was not to going to let some stupid angel bully him into facing his past, not when it all it did was make him feel sick and dizzy and scared and just so fucking *weak*. Bastard. The damned bastard. He was going to rip his wings off, snap him in half...No, he'd like that, the suffering fool, he'd love every moment of it, paying his damned penance for all his prideful misdeeds. Imagine, the nerve of him, feeling sorry for Fergus, going off on some idiot crusade that no one asked of him and that damn well wasn't appreciated. He'd ruined everything! Stupid, stupid, stupid angel!
The burlap sack rolled, and Crowley fought the urge to gag as the stench of Heaven wafted off of it. He didn't want to be here, surrounded by Castiel's sanctimonious grace and that...thing...that once had a name. He wasn't about to honour it by even thinking it.
Castiel grabbed the ties on the burlap sack and began to unravel them. "I believe you will enjoy torturing this one," he said. "I imagine it will give you great satisfaction due to the personal connection."
Castiel couldn't be more wrong. What Crowley wanted more than anything right now was to be as far away from that disgusting chunky spew of celestial pus and that stupid angel as he could get, and he knew exactly where to go. There was no way Castiel was going to follow him.
///
Vile. Absolutely vile. But no matter, he would drink it anyway.
He downed the fourth bottle of Bobby Singer's rotgut and let it fall to the floor with a loud smash as he gathered up a few more. He'd argued the need for class and decorum in one's choice of drink, but at the moment he could concede that the rough edged human had a point. Sometimes, it was all about getting the job done. And what Crowley was working on, very diligently it must be added, was to get rip roaring pissed.
Heavy steps stomping on creaking wooden planks alerted Crowley to Bobby's presence, and he blearily staggered back as the grizzled man shot out a few choice curse words and brandished a shotgun full of rock salt. "Really, darling, is that a gun in your hand or are you just glad to see me?" The phrase seemed incredibly funny to Crowley, who nearly collapsed into a fit of giggling over it, his laughter whiskey-tinged and echoing across the metal walls of the container he'd tried to enclose himself in. He dropped the bottles of booze onto the cot and rubbed at his eyes before pointing to the open door. "Here, then, be a dear and close up shop, will you? Burnt me bloody hands on those Enochian symbols."
He held up his red and blistered palms so Bobby could see he was telling the truth, a fact that seemed to make the burly man even angrier instead of acquiescing.
"Just what in the fool hell do you think you're doing here?"
"I quit."
"What do you mean you quit? You can't just quit being the King of Hell." Bobby kept his gun cocked. "What game are you playing now?"
It was really quite interesting, this little bubble of metal and symbols the Winchesters and Singer had constructed in his basement. Kind of cozy, really, like camping out. There was a kettle plugged in to the far wall, and a few pleasant photos of waterfall scenery, a weirdly naturalist touch that had Sam Winchester written all over it. The bedding was clean, and there were several books stacked against the entrance, containing everything from a battered paperback edition of The Necromonicon to On The Road. He puzzled over a copy of American Psycho and almost put it back, only to toss it onto the cot to accompany the rest of his needs. Nothing like a bit of fun, light reading to round out a relaxing evening.
"True, I can't say that I quit, necessarily," he further explained. "More like I avoided a lay-off, considering my job is about to become redundant. Quitting was definitely the best option. Best move was to just leave it behind and go. Trust me, the severance package sucks."
"You can't stay here," Bobby growled.
"Yes, I can. You can't banish me. I'm here of my own free will." Crowley popped the cork on a fresh bottle of rotgut and downed a good portion of it before continuing. "Go ahead and try to exorcise me," he taunted. "I'll just pop right back in faster than you can say 'spiritus sancti'. Now, like I said, be a good old boy and shut that door."
Bobby lowered his gun, and let it fall to his side, his head shaking. "I don't get why you'd want to be locked up in here."
"I've been needing some me time."
Bobby wasn't buying it. He tore his bottle of rotgut out of Crowley's hand and slammed it onto the table beside him. "You're going to tell me what's going on. From where I'm standing, you're looking mighty frazzled, and that makes me nervous. I have to wonder what can make a demon shiver in his boots like you are, even if you are putting on the honey badger act."
Crowley frowned at this. "What's a honey badger got to do with anything?"
Bobby shrugged. "Honey Badger don't care. He don't give a shit."
"What are you talking about?"
"You got an iPhone and you don't keep up with internet memes? What kind of idjit are you?"
Crowley blinked and crookedly glanced at the various bottles he had left on the floor of Bobby's basement. They clearly packed a bigger punch than he'd expected.
"One stupid enough to allow a sparrow in my attic," Crowley bitterly replied. He collapsed onto the cot, the small metal room spinning. "Only he isn't a sparrow, is he? He's a hawk, that bastard. With a nasty rat caught in his talons."
Bobby wasn't about to let up. He aimed the barrel of his gun at Crowley's chest, determined to let the demon know he meant business.
"Who are you talking about?"
"Some stupid angel," Crowley said, the spinning room lulling him into a sense of blissful unconsciousness. "Thursday's child. Castiel."