FILL: Powerplay - 1/? havlockvetinariSeptember 23 2010, 01:19:44 UTC
My first spn fic, but I figured something was better than nothing. So here you go! Thanks to kerrykhat for the beta
No one knows what Crowley’s game is; not human, demon, nor traitor archangel. There are few enough that even remember where Crowley is from. Newer demons, convinced that the Tempter was self-made, a human intentionally corrupted for all the power and influence of hell, envied his position, his seemingly natural skill. Farther up, in memories old, there was a silent certainty that he was Fallen. Even Lilith wondered, bargained, and tortured for that elusive scrap of information, taking the demon into her bed and as her Second in the hopes of finding something to provoke him, something that would draw out the demon’s true form, concrete proof of his origins.
Alastair knew. Knew from a dying angel, in the days when he’d been newly made and Lilith was naught but a pup herself.
Alastair knew why the demon chose to remain inscrutable, a side unto himself in Hell, with no known objectives or purpose beyond the mere temptation of mortals. He watched Crowley pick off threats from afar, an insignificant deal here, a minor annoyance there, and how the demon was always a plane away and irrefutably occupied, specific orders from Her in hand, when his opposition went down in a bloodbath of failed plots and rebellious subordinates. He knew why the demon was not merely content that others believed he only wished to survive, he re-enforced the image at every opportunity, the impression that given the right price, the right incentive, he could be bought, bargained and sold. And they still believed him, thousands of years without known allegiance or plan beyond His, and they still believed that the Tempter could be swayed.
Alastair knew it was a fool’s errand, not that it stopped him from trying, from dealing and intimidating every way he knew how to get the other demon strung up on his rack. He wanted the vain bastard hung up and vulnerable, at his mercy and his whim, not just for thwarting him, no evidence to show for it. He harbored no doubts that Crowley had interfered with Winchester. No human was that strong, that resolutely unbreakable. He’d take every hellhound he’d ever lost out of the bastard’s hide, pound for pound for that monstrosity he’d raised, that pup who ate his own in sport.
Crowley, bent and broken under his knife. Yes, he lusted for it, longed and planned for it, but he knew just how very unlikely that was. He knew, because he remembered what the angel had shared, broken not from the battle, from the sword driven into his back but from what he’d seen. From the memory that had driven him to a sure death, throwing himself against the very gates of Hell. The memory of his brightest, fairest brother’s eyes growing dark, turning inwards and that first discordant hum in paradise. The memory of a name, muttered dismissively, and a confused certainty that no such angel existed.
When the time was right, when it best served his own ends, he would tell Lilith. Would watch her angry disbelief. Lilith, their Master’s favorite, his very first demon. His first demon.
Alastair knew that all of Hell could wait until it had burned itself to ash before Crowley’s eyes changed, before he walked among them in his true form, before his purpose became any less...ineffable. The demon’s maker was of a subtler hand than anything born of Hell could comprehend, and Alastair hated him for it. ---
Tbc! Hopefully with more sex. Next up: Crowley POV
No one knows what Crowley’s game is; not human, demon, nor traitor archangel. There are few enough that even remember where Crowley is from. Newer demons, convinced that the Tempter was self-made, a human intentionally corrupted for all the power and influence of hell, envied his position, his seemingly natural skill. Farther up, in memories old, there was a silent certainty that he was Fallen. Even Lilith wondered, bargained, and tortured for that elusive scrap of information, taking the demon into her bed and as her Second in the hopes of finding something to provoke him, something that would draw out the demon’s true form, concrete proof of his origins.
Alastair knew. Knew from a dying angel, in the days when he’d been newly made and Lilith was naught but a pup herself.
Alastair knew why the demon chose to remain inscrutable, a side unto himself in Hell, with no known objectives or purpose beyond the mere temptation of mortals. He watched Crowley pick off threats from afar, an insignificant deal here, a minor annoyance there, and how the demon was always a plane away and irrefutably occupied, specific orders from Her in hand, when his opposition went down in a bloodbath of failed plots and rebellious subordinates. He knew why the demon was not merely content that others believed he only wished to survive, he re-enforced the image at every opportunity, the impression that given the right price, the right incentive, he could be bought, bargained and sold. And they still believed him, thousands of years without known allegiance or plan beyond His, and they still believed that the Tempter could be swayed.
Alastair knew it was a fool’s errand, not that it stopped him from trying, from dealing and intimidating every way he knew how to get the other demon strung up on his rack. He wanted the vain bastard hung up and vulnerable, at his mercy and his whim, not just for thwarting him, no evidence to show for it. He harbored no doubts that Crowley had interfered with Winchester. No human was that strong, that resolutely unbreakable. He’d take every hellhound he’d ever lost out of the bastard’s hide, pound for pound for that monstrosity he’d raised, that pup who ate his own in sport.
Crowley, bent and broken under his knife. Yes, he lusted for it, longed and planned for it, but he knew just how very unlikely that was. He knew, because he remembered what the angel had shared, broken not from the battle, from the sword driven into his back but from what he’d seen. From the memory that had driven him to a sure death, throwing himself against the very gates of Hell. The memory of his brightest, fairest brother’s eyes growing dark, turning inwards and that first discordant hum in paradise. The memory of a name, muttered dismissively, and a confused certainty that no such angel existed.
When the time was right, when it best served his own ends, he would tell Lilith. Would watch her angry disbelief. Lilith, their Master’s favorite, his very first demon. His first demon.
Alastair knew that all of Hell could wait until it had burned itself to ash before Crowley’s eyes changed, before he walked among them in his true form, before his purpose became any less...ineffable. The demon’s maker was of a subtler hand than anything born of Hell could comprehend, and Alastair hated him for it.
---
Tbc! Hopefully with more sex. Next up: Crowley POV
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