Save Me From These Perfect Clouds
It was like being woken from a dream. That moment where he'd snap back to reality, and Sam and Dean would be talking, or he'd be sitting in the backseat of the Impala, watching the rural countryside pass by from the highway. But always, there was that moment where he knew that something wasn't quite right, that he was missing something, something he couldn't name or even really think of. He brushed it off, ignored it, because what else was there that he could do?
But now, now he's standing in a white room, so prim and proper and glowing that it can't be any place but Heaven. Which makes the smug demon sitting on the edge of the desk very disconcerting. "Crowley," he states, looking around, as if expecting some unseen horde of death-winged darkness to descend upon him, as if he thinks they must already be laying waste to Heaven outside of these walls. Slowly, however, bits of memory are resurfacing: Naomi, being told to watch the Winchesters, coming when she called, being saved from Purgatory, his useless defiance against the strength of her Grace.
"We lost," he states evenly, because that can be the only reason that Crowley is here, in Heaven. But something doesn't quite feel right, he doesn't feel the shattering of Heaven through his Grace -- just an even, quiet stillness. He tilts his head, his brows furrowed as if he's trying to put together a puzzle and Crowley's stolen all the edge pieces; he doesn't know where to start.
"What happened," he finally asks in exasperation, that way he gathers his Grace around him, on edge, as if expecting this will turn into a fight, something bloody. "And where are the Winchesters?"
But now, now he's standing in a white room, so prim and proper and glowing that it can't be any place but Heaven. Which makes the smug demon sitting on the edge of the desk very disconcerting. "Crowley," he states, looking around, as if expecting some unseen horde of death-winged darkness to descend upon him, as if he thinks they must already be laying waste to Heaven outside of these walls. Slowly, however, bits of memory are resurfacing: Naomi, being told to watch the Winchesters, coming when she called, being saved from Purgatory, his useless defiance against the strength of her Grace.
"We lost," he states evenly, because that can be the only reason that Crowley is here, in Heaven. But something doesn't quite feel right, he doesn't feel the shattering of Heaven through his Grace -- just an even, quiet stillness. He tilts his head, his brows furrowed as if he's trying to put together a puzzle and Crowley's stolen all the edge pieces; he doesn't know where to start.
"What happened," he finally asks in exasperation, that way he gathers his Grace around him, on edge, as if expecting this will turn into a fight, something bloody. "And where are the Winchesters?"