Hearts Are Made Of Broken Glass 8/13 (Crowley, Castiel, Dean, rated PG-13)
Title: Hearts Are Made Of Broken Glass
Chapter:8/13
Author: pink_bagels
Genre: humour, drama
Pairing(s): Castiel/Crowley (eventually...kind of...), Dean/Crowley (eventually...kind of? o.O)
Rating: PG-13
Words: 3028
Disclaimer: You kidding? I own nothing.
Warnings: Some spoilers for the seventh season and some deviation from canon at the end of the sixth.
Note: This story did go on hiatus for a number of months, but I do think I've mentioned I'm a stubborn completionist--there's more done offline, so it will be finished :) Hope you enjoy it!
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 eight
He wasn't kidding when he'd said he was 'coming along for the ride'. As soon as Dean had placed his hand through the ethereal substance of Crowley's stomach, he'd been transported through his own fingertips into the guts of Crowley's host and then, speeding along the whirlwind ride of a main artery, he'd further delved into the cells, then into molecular structures and inside of electrons and then, like some viral creeper who just couldn't get enough, he stood on solid ground, surrounded by red walls and spongey wet dirt. Dean held his breath, though he knew the breathing was an illusion, that it was his own soul that had been transported here, pretending to be somewhere that existed, but was only a product of human imagination.
Human.
"I guess you can say this is a positive reading," Dean said to Castiel, who still stood beside him, staring around him with wary nervousness.
"It's not a very large soul," Castiel said, sweeping his gaze across the space they'd found themselves in. He gestured to the various holes and caverns that lined the cave-like structure, the light within flickering at best. "It's also severely damaged." He took a step and bits of the ground beneath them fell through, revealing large, black holes that stretched into infinite darkness. "Be careful. He's put a lot of traps in here."
"I don't get it," Dean said, his steps carefully trudging over areas that seemed to be more solid than others, each step tested first before he continued onwards. "If Crowley still has a soul, why is he hiding it like this? I mean, from what I saw of Hell, folks who end up in there eventually lose what little is left of their souls and all that emptiness it leaves behind, that's what turns into demon spawn. Like nuclear waste. Even if it is small and damaged, like you say, it's still a complete soul." An ember of angry consciousness nagged at the back of Castiel's head like a firefly and he shooed it away with the back of his hand. Dean slid his palm along the spongey walls, parts of them rigid, while others were soft and pliable, too easily bruised. "From what I understand a soul this intact is still a free ticket to upstairs, so what's Crowley doing hovering around down in Hell, taking up space he's not supposed to?"
"I have a theory, but it needs to wait until I have more evidence," Castiel replied. "For now, we need to investigate."
A small movement caught Dean's eye and he tried to follow it, but it was too fast. He caught a glimpse of an arm, and then a leg, and then it was gone, running down the centre of a cavern. "Stay here," Dean commanded Castiel. "I'll be right back."
"No, Dean, we have to stay together..." The warning was pointless and Castiel was left behind. As usual, the elder Winchester brother was heedless of caution, and he ran after the small figure dressed in red, the ground solid beneath him.
Dean was halfway down a long cavern, running with all he had after this kid who moved so quick it was like his feet were made of lightning. "Hey!" Dean shouted at him. "Hey, I just want to ask you something!" The kid paused, his head turned towards him over a slender shoulder, brown eyes wide with terror. He pushed open a slim metal door and slid in and Dean caught up with him, yanking the door open.
He found himself in the centre of what was supposed to be a church, but it was a perverted understanding of it, with grotesque images of torture and chaos lining the walls, the altar itself full of living, breathing sacraments that oozed pus and dripped with the spent blood of those who had fallen into the Bishop's grasp. Dean felt his mouth go dry at the familiar intruments of torture, but there was confusion at them as well. These did not have the familiar sulfer taint of Hell lurking on thier hinges. They were solid, more human in construction. These weren't the imaginings of creatures that knew only the dank holes of Hell, these were tools and they were used. Often.
Bloodcurdling screams that sounded as though they were from a child erupted through the lonely, horrific space and Dean backed away from the various medieval trappings, their bloodsoaked spikes oozing with rot, the gargoyles staring down at him from above leering with perverse pleasure over the thought of harm. Dean Winchester knew Hell inside and out by now thanks to his own time in the place, but this was not one of its many levels. He inched closer to the altar and dared to touch one of the objects of the sacrament, the goblet the Bishop would use to fill with wine for communion. It gave beneath his fingertips like a living thing, the surface lined with veins. He pulled away just as an eye opened wide inside of it, its brown shape the same as the child who had run from him, the terror within it making Dean's knees weak.
Against the far wall, an arched opening was filled with the shape of a looming figure, his red robe trailing the bloodsoaked corridor, the rich golden embroidery of his hem rising up in the centre to form the insignia of His Holiness the Bishop. Fear rose inside of Dean's being with all the rush of adrenaline his body could provide and it was all he could do not to piss himself. This thing that kept coming closer, its red robe all it was made of, the darkness it cloaked so evil it made bile rise inside of him, this thing had taken in a young Fergus McLeod and it made it clear, right from the beginning, that what it wanted had to be given or there were serious, unpleasant, horrific consequences. This was a thing that ate hope and swallowed it and killed it. It was hated and feared and nothing was going to redeem it, not one prayer in its favour, not one deal offered by a devil.
It was coming closer. Dean put the back of his fist up to his mouth, holding in his bile. He felt sick, sick, sick. Maybe Crowley was right. There was no place awful enough for this thing, Hell didn't even come close.
He shut his eyes against the onslaught of a sudden memory as a scream left his lips.
***
Castiel stood alone, frustrated in his efforts to find the information he needed thanks to Dean's sudden, inexplicable urge to do the exact opposite of what he told him to do. No, he had to admit, this wasn't entirely unexpected, but it always seemed to hit him with that insane note of surprise that while anticipated also irked him. If one wanted a Dean Winchester to do something for them and follow explicit instructions as to how, one had to label each component with its direct opposing force. If he told Dean to turn left, Castiel knew the man would turn right. If he said, 'Don't let go of my hand', he knew Dean would let go. With every decision, a new possibility was formed and Dean could always be counted on to take the extreme.
So, Castiel sighed with his usual resignation and journeyed into the further periphery of Crowley's soul, its boundary not so huge that he couldn't find Dean again easily. His lack of honesty in this did bother him, but as he had reasoned to himself, Dean made every simple action more complex than it needed to be and he had to adjust accordingly. It was simply a matter of understanding someone, and moving forward with those concepts in mind.
Crowley's soul was strangely void of the usual chaos he found in human subjects, but Castiel knew this had more to do with hiding the more unpleasant memories and aspects of his past self, and one couldn't do this without a few good vaults in place. There was the usual detrius of Hell strewn about. A torn liver here. A miserable clump of dusty fury there. Yet, despite all his time in Hell, Crowley's soul was remarkably tidy, a sign that Castiel self assuredly took to mean he was very much on the right track. He journeyed down a red corridor that gradually faded into a yellowed wallpaper hue, the door it ended at pristine and white. A new addition. Castiel shrugged his trenchcoat onto his shoulders into a more comfortable position and, ever so gently so as not to alert Crowley as to his heavenly presence, Castiel used his fingertips to nudge the door open.
He found himself in a very large immaculate library, the books lining the shelves perfectly catalogued and arranged according to Crowley's own system of importance. He passed by one rather large area that was labelled 'grievances', a section which was easily two hundred volumes. He picked up one of the leather bound books at random and opened it, reading some of the passages on various pages. 'Arnold Heyweather-Didn't say good-bye to me when I hung up the phone-December 3, 4:15pm, 1975', 'Charles Penny-Cursed at me when I sent the hell hounds to take his soul.-November 14, 7:45, 1876.', 'Sam Winchester-Didn't pay for his french fries and I got stuck with the tab.-March 13, 2010.' Castiel frowned over these, thinking that though Crowley was fairly organized for a demon, he had a problem with indexing under the proper headings. He himself would have placed them under 'perceived slights', but then, Crowley was obviously harsher in his outlook.
This did, however, give him an insight into how Crowley might hide a certain file that Castiel knew had to be hidden here, one that listed the name of the angel who had allowed Fergus McLeod's murderer access to Heaven. If such petty things as these listed were under 'greivances', perhaps there was a section labelled 'gross malfeasences against my person' and hidden within these various offences was the arrangement catalogued. But there was a nagging understanding within Castiel that said this route would not be so obvious. He cast a glance towards the towering stack of books marked 'contractual experiences: positive' which was easily three thousand miles high, and then, on the top row beside it in significantly less numbers were about three small volumes marked 'contractual experiences: negative'. Curious, Castiel took one of the 'positive' books off the shelf and read through a gruesome contract for a successful wealthy tyrannical chef and the method by which his soul was acquired (after screaming at his sous chef for not chopping an onion brunoise he accidentally tripped and fell into the fryer) and the subsequent tortures in Hell (forced to pour coffee and cater sandwiches to demons with complex gluten allergies for all eternity). Crowley's emotions and thoughts on the matter were outlined in all their intimate glee over this arrangement, the pride he took in his own creativity and work envious. "The demon Zoraster informed me that spelt flours are not entirely gluten free. Punishments were duly metered out by his group. It's not often I'm proud of demons, and this day must be marked as exceptional. I shall be sure to give them an extra muffin free of charge. Made of rye flour, of course. Unpleasant on the palate, and tasting vaguely of turnips, but that's the price of one's gut being picky."
He put the volume back where he found it and picked up the middle one labelled 'negative' and flipped through its pages. Before he could get a good look at the words written within it, a thin slip of nearly transparent blue paper fell out of it. Frowning, Castiel picked it up, its size about the width and depth of a notecard, the flimsy paper seeming to be made of some sort of onionskin. Its weight was familiar as he held it and, feeling somewhat triumphant, Castiel knew he had what he was looking for. He tucked the delicate blue paper into the inside pocket of his trenchcoat and quickly replaced the volume back on the shelf before returning to the ground floor of Crowley's inner library.
It was when he was half-way between 'annoyances' and 'miserable broodings' that he found a nearly invisible volume, its size so slight it couldn't be more than a pamphlet. Curious, Castiel pulled it out and was quite surprised to see it labelled as 'happy'. More curious still was the word emblazoned in gold on the centre of the front cover, its significance not lost on the angel.
'Simplicio'.
***
Dean was hopelessly lost. Disturbing as it was to be forced to journey through one's own soul, it was nothing compared to wandering the corridors of experience of someone who you not only didn't like but who had the potential to make your hereafter the worst version of Hell you could possibly imagine. Dean figured he had a pretty good imagination, and he certainly had a lot of his own inner hell to draw from, but Crowley-this guy really has some issues. After stumbling past some fond memories of torture sessions past, Dean had finally found a peaceful spot somewhere off-centre, the room weirdly sparse and containing one completely out of place ice cream parlour freezer. It was empty, save for one ice cream-a single, large scoop on a sugar cone. It was hot in the room, and stuffy, and though the ice cream was under lock and key, the key was already sitting in the lock just waiting for someone to turn it.
Dean glanced over his shoulder. He scratched the back of his head. He knew this had some kind of significance for the soul he was residing in, but he was kind of hungry since he hadn't had anything to eat in the last three hours, and it was hot in here, and that looked like organic vanilla. It had to be some memory that Crowley held dear, and Dean's own memories of carnivals past and hot summer afternoons full of hamburgers and rollercoasters intruded on the scene, and damn, he was hungry and who knew how long Castiel was going to take to find him. Besides, if he was looking for something that was locked away in Crowley's subconcious what better ruse would there be than in an ice cream in a tiny room? It wasn't like he could pocket this information, he was just going to have to take it into himself, and well, there was only one way to do that.
He turned the key in the lock and slid open the glass panel, his hand reaching in and grabbing the ice cream. The sugar cone was slightly sticky and ice cream began dripping the minute he had it in his grip, but no matter, it looked appetizing enough and a quick lick confirmed his suspicions. Really good, organic vanilla, like Ben & Jerry used to make. It began to drip down the sides and he quickly licked it, then slowed into circles making sure it had a good, solid foundation.
He did this for a while as he left the room and began searching anew for Castiel. The ice cream was a welcome reward after all that disturbing imagery, and it sure did taste good, the cool sensation a welcome balm on his tongue, its sweetness coursing through him as he swallowed it down.
Dean continued searching for another fifteen or so minutes until he finally turned a corner at the same time Castiel did, and he waved at him as he took another long lick across the surface of his now nearly depleted ice cream. "Cas! Over here, I think I got something."
Castiel approached him with a puzzled frown marring his features. "I found what I was looking for," he said, confident. "I told you not to let me out of your sight."
Dean shrugged. "We're back here together now, so what's the problem?" Damn, did Crowley have a fever or something? It was getting hotter in this place by the second. He took another long lick of ice cream.
Castiel stared at him.
"What are you doing?"
Ice cream dripped over his fingers and he licked it off. "We're wandering around Crowley's soul, what do you think we're doing?"
"No. I mean that." Castiel pointed at the ice cream. "What are you doing with that?"
"Oh." Dean smacked his lips. "It was in a room back there." He pointed, vaguely, in its direction. "I was kinda hungry. Why are you looking at me all pissed off for? It was just sitting there, it wasn't really locked up or nothing. Here." He offered the last few bites of it to Castiel who backed away. "You can finish it off."
"Dean," Castiel said, eyeing the Winchester carefully, "that is not what you think it is."
Dean had just popped the last of it in his mouth and quickly brushed off his hands on the thighs of his jeans. He paused at Castiel's shocked scrutiny.
"What do you mean?"
His hands still felt sticky. The more Castiel stared at him, the more he started feeling kind of sick.
"What do you mean, Cas?" he asked.
Nah. He didn't mean...Nah.
Did he?
He got his answer more clearly than the angel could ever have explained it. A furious, red faced, wall crumbling Crowley barrelled down the corridor after them, fire spitting out from his shoulders in ferocious lines. His face was a twisted mask of hatred. When he shouted, the walls of his soul shook and cracked from the impact.
Dean held up his palms-See? Nothing here.
"Dude...Let me explain..."
"GET! OUT!"
Chapter:8/13
Author: pink_bagels
Genre: humour, drama
Pairing(s): Castiel/Crowley (eventually...kind of...), Dean/Crowley (eventually...kind of? o.O)
Rating: PG-13
Words: 3028
Disclaimer: You kidding? I own nothing.
Warnings: Some spoilers for the seventh season and some deviation from canon at the end of the sixth.
Note: This story did go on hiatus for a number of months, but I do think I've mentioned I'm a stubborn completionist--there's more done offline, so it will be finished :) Hope you enjoy it!
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 eight
He wasn't kidding when he'd said he was 'coming along for the ride'. As soon as Dean had placed his hand through the ethereal substance of Crowley's stomach, he'd been transported through his own fingertips into the guts of Crowley's host and then, speeding along the whirlwind ride of a main artery, he'd further delved into the cells, then into molecular structures and inside of electrons and then, like some viral creeper who just couldn't get enough, he stood on solid ground, surrounded by red walls and spongey wet dirt. Dean held his breath, though he knew the breathing was an illusion, that it was his own soul that had been transported here, pretending to be somewhere that existed, but was only a product of human imagination.
Human.
"I guess you can say this is a positive reading," Dean said to Castiel, who still stood beside him, staring around him with wary nervousness.
"It's not a very large soul," Castiel said, sweeping his gaze across the space they'd found themselves in. He gestured to the various holes and caverns that lined the cave-like structure, the light within flickering at best. "It's also severely damaged." He took a step and bits of the ground beneath them fell through, revealing large, black holes that stretched into infinite darkness. "Be careful. He's put a lot of traps in here."
"I don't get it," Dean said, his steps carefully trudging over areas that seemed to be more solid than others, each step tested first before he continued onwards. "If Crowley still has a soul, why is he hiding it like this? I mean, from what I saw of Hell, folks who end up in there eventually lose what little is left of their souls and all that emptiness it leaves behind, that's what turns into demon spawn. Like nuclear waste. Even if it is small and damaged, like you say, it's still a complete soul." An ember of angry consciousness nagged at the back of Castiel's head like a firefly and he shooed it away with the back of his hand. Dean slid his palm along the spongey walls, parts of them rigid, while others were soft and pliable, too easily bruised. "From what I understand a soul this intact is still a free ticket to upstairs, so what's Crowley doing hovering around down in Hell, taking up space he's not supposed to?"
"I have a theory, but it needs to wait until I have more evidence," Castiel replied. "For now, we need to investigate."
A small movement caught Dean's eye and he tried to follow it, but it was too fast. He caught a glimpse of an arm, and then a leg, and then it was gone, running down the centre of a cavern. "Stay here," Dean commanded Castiel. "I'll be right back."
"No, Dean, we have to stay together..." The warning was pointless and Castiel was left behind. As usual, the elder Winchester brother was heedless of caution, and he ran after the small figure dressed in red, the ground solid beneath him.
Dean was halfway down a long cavern, running with all he had after this kid who moved so quick it was like his feet were made of lightning. "Hey!" Dean shouted at him. "Hey, I just want to ask you something!" The kid paused, his head turned towards him over a slender shoulder, brown eyes wide with terror. He pushed open a slim metal door and slid in and Dean caught up with him, yanking the door open.
He found himself in the centre of what was supposed to be a church, but it was a perverted understanding of it, with grotesque images of torture and chaos lining the walls, the altar itself full of living, breathing sacraments that oozed pus and dripped with the spent blood of those who had fallen into the Bishop's grasp. Dean felt his mouth go dry at the familiar intruments of torture, but there was confusion at them as well. These did not have the familiar sulfer taint of Hell lurking on thier hinges. They were solid, more human in construction. These weren't the imaginings of creatures that knew only the dank holes of Hell, these were tools and they were used. Often.
Bloodcurdling screams that sounded as though they were from a child erupted through the lonely, horrific space and Dean backed away from the various medieval trappings, their bloodsoaked spikes oozing with rot, the gargoyles staring down at him from above leering with perverse pleasure over the thought of harm. Dean Winchester knew Hell inside and out by now thanks to his own time in the place, but this was not one of its many levels. He inched closer to the altar and dared to touch one of the objects of the sacrament, the goblet the Bishop would use to fill with wine for communion. It gave beneath his fingertips like a living thing, the surface lined with veins. He pulled away just as an eye opened wide inside of it, its brown shape the same as the child who had run from him, the terror within it making Dean's knees weak.
Against the far wall, an arched opening was filled with the shape of a looming figure, his red robe trailing the bloodsoaked corridor, the rich golden embroidery of his hem rising up in the centre to form the insignia of His Holiness the Bishop. Fear rose inside of Dean's being with all the rush of adrenaline his body could provide and it was all he could do not to piss himself. This thing that kept coming closer, its red robe all it was made of, the darkness it cloaked so evil it made bile rise inside of him, this thing had taken in a young Fergus McLeod and it made it clear, right from the beginning, that what it wanted had to be given or there were serious, unpleasant, horrific consequences. This was a thing that ate hope and swallowed it and killed it. It was hated and feared and nothing was going to redeem it, not one prayer in its favour, not one deal offered by a devil.
It was coming closer. Dean put the back of his fist up to his mouth, holding in his bile. He felt sick, sick, sick. Maybe Crowley was right. There was no place awful enough for this thing, Hell didn't even come close.
He shut his eyes against the onslaught of a sudden memory as a scream left his lips.
***
Castiel stood alone, frustrated in his efforts to find the information he needed thanks to Dean's sudden, inexplicable urge to do the exact opposite of what he told him to do. No, he had to admit, this wasn't entirely unexpected, but it always seemed to hit him with that insane note of surprise that while anticipated also irked him. If one wanted a Dean Winchester to do something for them and follow explicit instructions as to how, one had to label each component with its direct opposing force. If he told Dean to turn left, Castiel knew the man would turn right. If he said, 'Don't let go of my hand', he knew Dean would let go. With every decision, a new possibility was formed and Dean could always be counted on to take the extreme.
So, Castiel sighed with his usual resignation and journeyed into the further periphery of Crowley's soul, its boundary not so huge that he couldn't find Dean again easily. His lack of honesty in this did bother him, but as he had reasoned to himself, Dean made every simple action more complex than it needed to be and he had to adjust accordingly. It was simply a matter of understanding someone, and moving forward with those concepts in mind.
Crowley's soul was strangely void of the usual chaos he found in human subjects, but Castiel knew this had more to do with hiding the more unpleasant memories and aspects of his past self, and one couldn't do this without a few good vaults in place. There was the usual detrius of Hell strewn about. A torn liver here. A miserable clump of dusty fury there. Yet, despite all his time in Hell, Crowley's soul was remarkably tidy, a sign that Castiel self assuredly took to mean he was very much on the right track. He journeyed down a red corridor that gradually faded into a yellowed wallpaper hue, the door it ended at pristine and white. A new addition. Castiel shrugged his trenchcoat onto his shoulders into a more comfortable position and, ever so gently so as not to alert Crowley as to his heavenly presence, Castiel used his fingertips to nudge the door open.
He found himself in a very large immaculate library, the books lining the shelves perfectly catalogued and arranged according to Crowley's own system of importance. He passed by one rather large area that was labelled 'grievances', a section which was easily two hundred volumes. He picked up one of the leather bound books at random and opened it, reading some of the passages on various pages. 'Arnold Heyweather-Didn't say good-bye to me when I hung up the phone-December 3, 4:15pm, 1975', 'Charles Penny-Cursed at me when I sent the hell hounds to take his soul.-November 14, 7:45, 1876.', 'Sam Winchester-Didn't pay for his french fries and I got stuck with the tab.-March 13, 2010.' Castiel frowned over these, thinking that though Crowley was fairly organized for a demon, he had a problem with indexing under the proper headings. He himself would have placed them under 'perceived slights', but then, Crowley was obviously harsher in his outlook.
This did, however, give him an insight into how Crowley might hide a certain file that Castiel knew had to be hidden here, one that listed the name of the angel who had allowed Fergus McLeod's murderer access to Heaven. If such petty things as these listed were under 'greivances', perhaps there was a section labelled 'gross malfeasences against my person' and hidden within these various offences was the arrangement catalogued. But there was a nagging understanding within Castiel that said this route would not be so obvious. He cast a glance towards the towering stack of books marked 'contractual experiences: positive' which was easily three thousand miles high, and then, on the top row beside it in significantly less numbers were about three small volumes marked 'contractual experiences: negative'. Curious, Castiel took one of the 'positive' books off the shelf and read through a gruesome contract for a successful wealthy tyrannical chef and the method by which his soul was acquired (after screaming at his sous chef for not chopping an onion brunoise he accidentally tripped and fell into the fryer) and the subsequent tortures in Hell (forced to pour coffee and cater sandwiches to demons with complex gluten allergies for all eternity). Crowley's emotions and thoughts on the matter were outlined in all their intimate glee over this arrangement, the pride he took in his own creativity and work envious. "The demon Zoraster informed me that spelt flours are not entirely gluten free. Punishments were duly metered out by his group. It's not often I'm proud of demons, and this day must be marked as exceptional. I shall be sure to give them an extra muffin free of charge. Made of rye flour, of course. Unpleasant on the palate, and tasting vaguely of turnips, but that's the price of one's gut being picky."
He put the volume back where he found it and picked up the middle one labelled 'negative' and flipped through its pages. Before he could get a good look at the words written within it, a thin slip of nearly transparent blue paper fell out of it. Frowning, Castiel picked it up, its size about the width and depth of a notecard, the flimsy paper seeming to be made of some sort of onionskin. Its weight was familiar as he held it and, feeling somewhat triumphant, Castiel knew he had what he was looking for. He tucked the delicate blue paper into the inside pocket of his trenchcoat and quickly replaced the volume back on the shelf before returning to the ground floor of Crowley's inner library.
It was when he was half-way between 'annoyances' and 'miserable broodings' that he found a nearly invisible volume, its size so slight it couldn't be more than a pamphlet. Curious, Castiel pulled it out and was quite surprised to see it labelled as 'happy'. More curious still was the word emblazoned in gold on the centre of the front cover, its significance not lost on the angel.
'Simplicio'.
***
Dean was hopelessly lost. Disturbing as it was to be forced to journey through one's own soul, it was nothing compared to wandering the corridors of experience of someone who you not only didn't like but who had the potential to make your hereafter the worst version of Hell you could possibly imagine. Dean figured he had a pretty good imagination, and he certainly had a lot of his own inner hell to draw from, but Crowley-this guy really has some issues. After stumbling past some fond memories of torture sessions past, Dean had finally found a peaceful spot somewhere off-centre, the room weirdly sparse and containing one completely out of place ice cream parlour freezer. It was empty, save for one ice cream-a single, large scoop on a sugar cone. It was hot in the room, and stuffy, and though the ice cream was under lock and key, the key was already sitting in the lock just waiting for someone to turn it.
Dean glanced over his shoulder. He scratched the back of his head. He knew this had some kind of significance for the soul he was residing in, but he was kind of hungry since he hadn't had anything to eat in the last three hours, and it was hot in here, and that looked like organic vanilla. It had to be some memory that Crowley held dear, and Dean's own memories of carnivals past and hot summer afternoons full of hamburgers and rollercoasters intruded on the scene, and damn, he was hungry and who knew how long Castiel was going to take to find him. Besides, if he was looking for something that was locked away in Crowley's subconcious what better ruse would there be than in an ice cream in a tiny room? It wasn't like he could pocket this information, he was just going to have to take it into himself, and well, there was only one way to do that.
He turned the key in the lock and slid open the glass panel, his hand reaching in and grabbing the ice cream. The sugar cone was slightly sticky and ice cream began dripping the minute he had it in his grip, but no matter, it looked appetizing enough and a quick lick confirmed his suspicions. Really good, organic vanilla, like Ben & Jerry used to make. It began to drip down the sides and he quickly licked it, then slowed into circles making sure it had a good, solid foundation.
He did this for a while as he left the room and began searching anew for Castiel. The ice cream was a welcome reward after all that disturbing imagery, and it sure did taste good, the cool sensation a welcome balm on his tongue, its sweetness coursing through him as he swallowed it down.
Dean continued searching for another fifteen or so minutes until he finally turned a corner at the same time Castiel did, and he waved at him as he took another long lick across the surface of his now nearly depleted ice cream. "Cas! Over here, I think I got something."
Castiel approached him with a puzzled frown marring his features. "I found what I was looking for," he said, confident. "I told you not to let me out of your sight."
Dean shrugged. "We're back here together now, so what's the problem?" Damn, did Crowley have a fever or something? It was getting hotter in this place by the second. He took another long lick of ice cream.
Castiel stared at him.
"What are you doing?"
Ice cream dripped over his fingers and he licked it off. "We're wandering around Crowley's soul, what do you think we're doing?"
"No. I mean that." Castiel pointed at the ice cream. "What are you doing with that?"
"Oh." Dean smacked his lips. "It was in a room back there." He pointed, vaguely, in its direction. "I was kinda hungry. Why are you looking at me all pissed off for? It was just sitting there, it wasn't really locked up or nothing. Here." He offered the last few bites of it to Castiel who backed away. "You can finish it off."
"Dean," Castiel said, eyeing the Winchester carefully, "that is not what you think it is."
Dean had just popped the last of it in his mouth and quickly brushed off his hands on the thighs of his jeans. He paused at Castiel's shocked scrutiny.
"What do you mean?"
His hands still felt sticky. The more Castiel stared at him, the more he started feeling kind of sick.
"What do you mean, Cas?" he asked.
Nah. He didn't mean...Nah.
Did he?
He got his answer more clearly than the angel could ever have explained it. A furious, red faced, wall crumbling Crowley barrelled down the corridor after them, fire spitting out from his shoulders in ferocious lines. His face was a twisted mask of hatred. When he shouted, the walls of his soul shook and cracked from the impact.
Dean held up his palms-See? Nothing here.
"Dude...Let me explain..."
"GET! OUT!"