SOME PEOPLE HAVE REAL PROBLEMS--4/10 (Supernatural: Dean, Cas, Sam, Crowley, Growley)
Title: Some People Have Real Problems
Fandom: Supernatural
Word count (total fic): 20,245
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: None, really, maybe some Dean/Cas hints. Don't hold the lack of pairing against it, though--If you're a dog lover, you'll probably like this story...
Summary: When Crowley's meatsuit mutinies it's up to Castiel and the Winchesters to help The King Of Hell him get back into his favourite blood and guts condominium. What starts off as a seemingly easy assignment quickly turns into a drama about a dead dog and a haphazard pile of memories. Putting a leash on Crowley's body proves harder than expected.
Notes: Takes place after season five, AU afterwards--Sam was rescued from Hell in much the same manner as Dean. Otherwise it's canon.
This was written for the crowley_bigbang on livejournal. I didn't quite make it for the official track, so this is the unofficial posting :P.
Buried deep within the crowd of an Oscars party, a familiar face peeked out from behind a massive array of ferns adorning a table set way in the back of the ballroom. Using a magnifying glass, Sam was able to discern that it was, in fact, the body Crowley was using creeping along the periphery of the rich and famous, shoved so far back into the woodwork he might as well have been one of the nameless great unwashed cheering just outside the back door, which was coincidentally where his table was situated.
"Literary agent, huh?" Sam placed the magnifying glass to one side and and rubbed at his aching eyes with the heels of his hands. "I have this sneaking suspicion he wasn't all that well known."
"He made it into the party, that was known enough," Crowley tersely replied from the rear view mirror of the Impala. He was getting very irked by their constant scrutiny of his host choice, especially since the man didn't even survive the entire contractual agreement which basically left his recently vacated human condo free to let. Squatter's rights and all that rot, that's what he had going for him, and he wasn't about hand over the keys to some vague memory cell floating about in his host's lower intestine. Bloody ridiculous, the whole business was, and it certainly didn't sound like science to him. For some reason the stilted voice of William Shatner kept invading his consciousness and pestering him with evil intent--"You won't...Be getting...That body...Baaack."
Crowley shuddered and slid to the lower left corner of the rear view mirror, not liking one whit where his thoughts were taking him. As for where they were driving, he had no clue what roads these were or what this tiny little suburban city on the east coast was supposed to mean to him. His body was the one with all the memories and debris of life circling within it. His own past human experience was so long ago he wouldn't have been able to find any concept of 'home' again, not even if he did make it back to the shores of bonnie old Scotland with its bagpipes and kilts and clans and pubs and beer and good scotch and absolutely terrible food. Deep fried hamburgers, really? Bloody wonder the very thought didn't give a man a coronary.
Not to mention that he no longer had a proper Scottish accent and frankly that was just weird. He should have been suspicious something wasn't right ages ago. It wasn't like he couldn't let loose a good rolling 'r' or two, but ever since he'd found that free literary agent's body his larynx would refuse to trip up his tongue proper and all he'd be left with was the softer lilt of an Englishman with an undercurrent of cockney that he simply couldn't get rid of. It was a small detail, one he hadn't given much thought to, until now, with his body in mutiny. Bastard thing, he was definitely going to have to give himself a go over.
'So what do we know of this guy?" Dean asked his brother, and being sure to give Crowley a little bristling glare as he glanced up at the mirror. Prick. "So he hung out with the rich and famous--Was he a wannabe or what?"
"Not exactly," Sam said, going through lists of addresses on a hacked LookUp account. "I found his social security number, but it's been inactive for some time. He worked at the same place for years, some tiny independent publishing company that barely scrapes through its budget every year. He never married, has no dependents, parents died a while back, no inheritances, driver's license hasn't been renewed since 1992, no bankruptcies or bills in his name, no mortgage." Sam shook his head. "I don't get it, it's like this guy wasn't living to start with."
"He occupied space somewhere," Dean countered. "You got an address for me yet?"
"Right here." Sam handed him the map and pointed to where he'd circled it. "Should be coming up on the right, 37 Collie Street. Google view shows it's a bungalow."
True to his word the bungalow sprung into view and Dean parked the Impala a few houses down, behind a thick clump of overhanging branches thick with snow. "I hate the east coast this time of year," Dean complained. He shivered as he turned off the engine. He glanced up at Crowley who was uncharacteristically quiet. "Hey, turn up the heat why don't you, it's not like we need to freeze to death."
"I'm not your personal furnace."
"I'm not wasting gas to put the heat on when you are perfectly capable of making us comfortable. It's the least you can do!"
"Oh, so it's about payment now, is it? Not helping out a friend in need?"
"You aren't our friend," Castiel reminded him and Crowley flinched in surprise at his voice. He'd crashed their little party, flitting into the back seat of the Impala when no one was watching. Sneaky bastards, angels.
"Oh bugger off, who asked you?"
The argument was ready to erupt in full, childish swing, but Sam's eagle eyes prevented it from growing. "I see him. He's going to the house, he's walking up the path." Sam rolled down his window, the cold air snapping into the car making all of them, including Crowley's reflection, shiver. "He's not wearing a coat, and he doesn't seem to be too affected by the cold. He looks very neat and trim, though, a lot cleaner than you usually keep him. Which is odd because I've always thought of you as a bit of an OCD nut job."
"Thanks?" Crowley replied, brow raised.
"Someone is answering the door." Dean fished out his binoculars and got a good view of the front door, where a tall, rather willowy figure stood in its frame. There were a few loud words at the body, and then, to Dean's surprise, the door was slammed in the body's face.
"Got any idea on who that is?" Dean asked.
"A significant other, I believe that is the terminology used," Castiel said. "The body is knocking on the door again. Perhaps we should intercept."
"Just hold on a second," Dean said. He took off his binoculars, readjusted them, and then watched as the door opened again, and the tall figure, once again, began to argue. This time, however, the person threw up their hands in defeat and bid the body to come in. There was a pronounced shaking of the head, a sorrowful resolve evident in the figure's movements. Dean let the binoculars fall into his lap.
"He's done this before," Dean said.
"We need to get in there." Sam was already opening the door, their cover story quickly given lip service to the angel in the backseat. Sam knew by now that Castiel wasn't one to follow perfectly with the plan. This called for some serious improvising. "We'll go around the back, see what we're dealing with first. " He cast a wary glance Crowley's way. "This is pretty advanced stuff, Crowley, how in the heck did your body manage to do this without any real will behind it? I know what my research told me, but in all honesty it was all impressions and feelings...Scientifically, it's impossible for your body to do these advanced functions without you. I mean, take away the whole demon possession thing and you got yourself one heck of a medical marvel."
"It's not going to be your little lab experiment, it's my body, you're not to touch it, maim it, or otherwise harm it, that lovely suit it's wearing cost me two of my finest henchmen and I'm getting it and the body in it back without one thread disturbed. Am I understood?"
"You can't blame the guy, Sam," Dean said, offering his sympathy to this devil, which Crowley strangely appreciated. "I mean, how would you feel if your body went walking around having a life without you in it? Frankly, I'd be all kinds of disappointed, you know? Your body is supposed to be on your side, you're part of a team. Abandoning him like that, well...You know what, it's hurtful."
"Dean, it's like getting upset at what a cat thinks of you. It doesn't have a personality, it doesn't have the capacity to be on your 'side'. It's a car with the lights left on. That's it."
"It abandoned him, dude!"
"It's a residual memory. It's an animated inanimate object, Dean, there is no premeditation here. It has nothing to do with Crowley."
"Cats like me," Castiel argued. He slid out of the car a disturbed, perplexed look on his face. "Their stomachs rumble nicely when I pet them and they look up at me with unwavering delight, like a cherub does only it's not horrifically uncomfortable."
Crowley was left alone in the rear view mirror of the Impala. He sat in the reflected back seat, alone, wondering if this could be some new form of Hell he could cultivate for people who couldn't stand stupid conversations. He could use actual reconstructions from the trio's constant nagging and whinging and bitching and put it on an endless loop. Just the thought made him shudder in revulsion. No, perhaps there were some things too awful to endure, even in Hell.
***
They crept through the bushes towards the back of the house, their steps not as silent as they wanted them to be. Castiel fell face first into the snow and amid some angelic cursing in Enochian they crept to the back door and hung back, listening in to a very one sided conversation. "I can't believe you did this again!" a voice was arguing. "Five whole months! Did you think I was going to wait around for you? Well? What's wrong with you, don't you have anything to say?"
Pronounced stomping roared through the tiny house and the willowy figure Dean had seen earlier was now in the kitchen banging cups and the kettle and angrily making a cup of coffee or tea. "He killed the dog." There was a long, protracted pause at this, one charged with fury that grew within the confines of silence. "Dammit, did you hear me, he killed Galileo!"
A cup was thrown into the sink hard enough to shatter it. Dean touched his nose, bidding Sam and Castiel to huddle closer. "I say we go the FBI angle. Whoever this is they sure recognize Crowley's body and seem to have one heck of a long history with it. One thing is for sure, the body isn't talking so that might go in Crowley's favour."
"It's weird," Sam said, thinking.
"Of course it is, weird is our life."
"No. I mean the dog." Sam glanced up at the back window, the shadows moving across it purposeful, angry. "The article stated the investigation into the dog's death was still going on, but this person, whoever they are, they know who did it." Sam caught Dean's eye. "This is more than the murder of a nice dog. The body had a darn good reason for coming back here. It wants to protect its family."
"I don't know, Sam," Dean said. He shivered as a cold breeze cut across them through the low hedges. "This doesn't look like any kind of family to me. No kids, and this guy apparently used to disappear all the time. Nothing decorating the place, giving it that homey touch, you know what I mean? I mean look at those hedges, they might as well be chiseled with a razor blade. These people live like mannequins, not living, breathing, blood and dirt people, you get know what I'm saying?"
"No, I don't." Sam inched his way closer to the front of the house. "They aren't demons, if that's what you're getting at."
"They don't even have a BBQ. Who lives like that?"
"So what? Maybe they're just a little different."
"Our motel rooms have more ambiance." Dean peeked into the windows, searching out some semblance of a human touch. There was a sad clown picture on the far wall and Dean shuddered. "These people are freaks."
"Not everyone has your eye for decor, Dean. Come on, just because they don't have style doesn't mean they don't care about each other, or even how they live is wrong. What we think of as happy isn't the whole world's version of happiness. That's a pretty arrogant stance to have. I mean, we hardly fit the bill of a perfect family, who are we to judge?" He took a glance himself through the back kitchen window. "But yeah, that clown picture...Geez. I can see into the living room from here. Oh my God, that is the ugliest couch I have ever seen."
"I know, right? The 70's called, they want you to forget that pattern ever happened." Dean kept his hand on the barrel of his gun as he crept through the icy layer of snow beneath the windowsill. "Put whatever psychobabble spin you want on it, this is just plain creepy. Not even hermits live this sparse a life." They crept to the front steps, guns drawn. "Will you knock or will I?"
"I'd be happy to do it," Castiel said, smiling. He marched to the front door, his index finger and thumb pointing, his remaining fingers curled back, in the manner of an imaginary gun. He rapped hard enough on the front door to leave large welts in the wood. "FBI! Open up! We have the place surrounded!"
Castiel gave Dean a happy thumbs up as a panicked human being ran for the front door.
"Maybe you got a point," Dean said to his brother as they rushed the opening door and forced their way into the house. "Maybe all families are just plain fucked."
Fandom: Supernatural
Word count (total fic): 20,245
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: None, really, maybe some Dean/Cas hints. Don't hold the lack of pairing against it, though--If you're a dog lover, you'll probably like this story...
Summary: When Crowley's meatsuit mutinies it's up to Castiel and the Winchesters to help The King Of Hell him get back into his favourite blood and guts condominium. What starts off as a seemingly easy assignment quickly turns into a drama about a dead dog and a haphazard pile of memories. Putting a leash on Crowley's body proves harder than expected.
Notes: Takes place after season five, AU afterwards--Sam was rescued from Hell in much the same manner as Dean. Otherwise it's canon.
This was written for the crowley_bigbang on livejournal. I didn't quite make it for the official track, so this is the unofficial posting :P.
Buried deep within the crowd of an Oscars party, a familiar face peeked out from behind a massive array of ferns adorning a table set way in the back of the ballroom. Using a magnifying glass, Sam was able to discern that it was, in fact, the body Crowley was using creeping along the periphery of the rich and famous, shoved so far back into the woodwork he might as well have been one of the nameless great unwashed cheering just outside the back door, which was coincidentally where his table was situated.
"Literary agent, huh?" Sam placed the magnifying glass to one side and and rubbed at his aching eyes with the heels of his hands. "I have this sneaking suspicion he wasn't all that well known."
"He made it into the party, that was known enough," Crowley tersely replied from the rear view mirror of the Impala. He was getting very irked by their constant scrutiny of his host choice, especially since the man didn't even survive the entire contractual agreement which basically left his recently vacated human condo free to let. Squatter's rights and all that rot, that's what he had going for him, and he wasn't about hand over the keys to some vague memory cell floating about in his host's lower intestine. Bloody ridiculous, the whole business was, and it certainly didn't sound like science to him. For some reason the stilted voice of William Shatner kept invading his consciousness and pestering him with evil intent--"You won't...Be getting...That body...Baaack."
Crowley shuddered and slid to the lower left corner of the rear view mirror, not liking one whit where his thoughts were taking him. As for where they were driving, he had no clue what roads these were or what this tiny little suburban city on the east coast was supposed to mean to him. His body was the one with all the memories and debris of life circling within it. His own past human experience was so long ago he wouldn't have been able to find any concept of 'home' again, not even if he did make it back to the shores of bonnie old Scotland with its bagpipes and kilts and clans and pubs and beer and good scotch and absolutely terrible food. Deep fried hamburgers, really? Bloody wonder the very thought didn't give a man a coronary.
Not to mention that he no longer had a proper Scottish accent and frankly that was just weird. He should have been suspicious something wasn't right ages ago. It wasn't like he couldn't let loose a good rolling 'r' or two, but ever since he'd found that free literary agent's body his larynx would refuse to trip up his tongue proper and all he'd be left with was the softer lilt of an Englishman with an undercurrent of cockney that he simply couldn't get rid of. It was a small detail, one he hadn't given much thought to, until now, with his body in mutiny. Bastard thing, he was definitely going to have to give himself a go over.
'So what do we know of this guy?" Dean asked his brother, and being sure to give Crowley a little bristling glare as he glanced up at the mirror. Prick. "So he hung out with the rich and famous--Was he a wannabe or what?"
"Not exactly," Sam said, going through lists of addresses on a hacked LookUp account. "I found his social security number, but it's been inactive for some time. He worked at the same place for years, some tiny independent publishing company that barely scrapes through its budget every year. He never married, has no dependents, parents died a while back, no inheritances, driver's license hasn't been renewed since 1992, no bankruptcies or bills in his name, no mortgage." Sam shook his head. "I don't get it, it's like this guy wasn't living to start with."
"He occupied space somewhere," Dean countered. "You got an address for me yet?"
"Right here." Sam handed him the map and pointed to where he'd circled it. "Should be coming up on the right, 37 Collie Street. Google view shows it's a bungalow."
True to his word the bungalow sprung into view and Dean parked the Impala a few houses down, behind a thick clump of overhanging branches thick with snow. "I hate the east coast this time of year," Dean complained. He shivered as he turned off the engine. He glanced up at Crowley who was uncharacteristically quiet. "Hey, turn up the heat why don't you, it's not like we need to freeze to death."
"I'm not your personal furnace."
"I'm not wasting gas to put the heat on when you are perfectly capable of making us comfortable. It's the least you can do!"
"Oh, so it's about payment now, is it? Not helping out a friend in need?"
"You aren't our friend," Castiel reminded him and Crowley flinched in surprise at his voice. He'd crashed their little party, flitting into the back seat of the Impala when no one was watching. Sneaky bastards, angels.
"Oh bugger off, who asked you?"
The argument was ready to erupt in full, childish swing, but Sam's eagle eyes prevented it from growing. "I see him. He's going to the house, he's walking up the path." Sam rolled down his window, the cold air snapping into the car making all of them, including Crowley's reflection, shiver. "He's not wearing a coat, and he doesn't seem to be too affected by the cold. He looks very neat and trim, though, a lot cleaner than you usually keep him. Which is odd because I've always thought of you as a bit of an OCD nut job."
"Thanks?" Crowley replied, brow raised.
"Someone is answering the door." Dean fished out his binoculars and got a good view of the front door, where a tall, rather willowy figure stood in its frame. There were a few loud words at the body, and then, to Dean's surprise, the door was slammed in the body's face.
"Got any idea on who that is?" Dean asked.
"A significant other, I believe that is the terminology used," Castiel said. "The body is knocking on the door again. Perhaps we should intercept."
"Just hold on a second," Dean said. He took off his binoculars, readjusted them, and then watched as the door opened again, and the tall figure, once again, began to argue. This time, however, the person threw up their hands in defeat and bid the body to come in. There was a pronounced shaking of the head, a sorrowful resolve evident in the figure's movements. Dean let the binoculars fall into his lap.
"He's done this before," Dean said.
"We need to get in there." Sam was already opening the door, their cover story quickly given lip service to the angel in the backseat. Sam knew by now that Castiel wasn't one to follow perfectly with the plan. This called for some serious improvising. "We'll go around the back, see what we're dealing with first. " He cast a wary glance Crowley's way. "This is pretty advanced stuff, Crowley, how in the heck did your body manage to do this without any real will behind it? I know what my research told me, but in all honesty it was all impressions and feelings...Scientifically, it's impossible for your body to do these advanced functions without you. I mean, take away the whole demon possession thing and you got yourself one heck of a medical marvel."
"It's not going to be your little lab experiment, it's my body, you're not to touch it, maim it, or otherwise harm it, that lovely suit it's wearing cost me two of my finest henchmen and I'm getting it and the body in it back without one thread disturbed. Am I understood?"
"You can't blame the guy, Sam," Dean said, offering his sympathy to this devil, which Crowley strangely appreciated. "I mean, how would you feel if your body went walking around having a life without you in it? Frankly, I'd be all kinds of disappointed, you know? Your body is supposed to be on your side, you're part of a team. Abandoning him like that, well...You know what, it's hurtful."
"Dean, it's like getting upset at what a cat thinks of you. It doesn't have a personality, it doesn't have the capacity to be on your 'side'. It's a car with the lights left on. That's it."
"It abandoned him, dude!"
"It's a residual memory. It's an animated inanimate object, Dean, there is no premeditation here. It has nothing to do with Crowley."
"Cats like me," Castiel argued. He slid out of the car a disturbed, perplexed look on his face. "Their stomachs rumble nicely when I pet them and they look up at me with unwavering delight, like a cherub does only it's not horrifically uncomfortable."
Crowley was left alone in the rear view mirror of the Impala. He sat in the reflected back seat, alone, wondering if this could be some new form of Hell he could cultivate for people who couldn't stand stupid conversations. He could use actual reconstructions from the trio's constant nagging and whinging and bitching and put it on an endless loop. Just the thought made him shudder in revulsion. No, perhaps there were some things too awful to endure, even in Hell.
***
They crept through the bushes towards the back of the house, their steps not as silent as they wanted them to be. Castiel fell face first into the snow and amid some angelic cursing in Enochian they crept to the back door and hung back, listening in to a very one sided conversation. "I can't believe you did this again!" a voice was arguing. "Five whole months! Did you think I was going to wait around for you? Well? What's wrong with you, don't you have anything to say?"
Pronounced stomping roared through the tiny house and the willowy figure Dean had seen earlier was now in the kitchen banging cups and the kettle and angrily making a cup of coffee or tea. "He killed the dog." There was a long, protracted pause at this, one charged with fury that grew within the confines of silence. "Dammit, did you hear me, he killed Galileo!"
A cup was thrown into the sink hard enough to shatter it. Dean touched his nose, bidding Sam and Castiel to huddle closer. "I say we go the FBI angle. Whoever this is they sure recognize Crowley's body and seem to have one heck of a long history with it. One thing is for sure, the body isn't talking so that might go in Crowley's favour."
"It's weird," Sam said, thinking.
"Of course it is, weird is our life."
"No. I mean the dog." Sam glanced up at the back window, the shadows moving across it purposeful, angry. "The article stated the investigation into the dog's death was still going on, but this person, whoever they are, they know who did it." Sam caught Dean's eye. "This is more than the murder of a nice dog. The body had a darn good reason for coming back here. It wants to protect its family."
"I don't know, Sam," Dean said. He shivered as a cold breeze cut across them through the low hedges. "This doesn't look like any kind of family to me. No kids, and this guy apparently used to disappear all the time. Nothing decorating the place, giving it that homey touch, you know what I mean? I mean look at those hedges, they might as well be chiseled with a razor blade. These people live like mannequins, not living, breathing, blood and dirt people, you get know what I'm saying?"
"No, I don't." Sam inched his way closer to the front of the house. "They aren't demons, if that's what you're getting at."
"They don't even have a BBQ. Who lives like that?"
"So what? Maybe they're just a little different."
"Our motel rooms have more ambiance." Dean peeked into the windows, searching out some semblance of a human touch. There was a sad clown picture on the far wall and Dean shuddered. "These people are freaks."
"Not everyone has your eye for decor, Dean. Come on, just because they don't have style doesn't mean they don't care about each other, or even how they live is wrong. What we think of as happy isn't the whole world's version of happiness. That's a pretty arrogant stance to have. I mean, we hardly fit the bill of a perfect family, who are we to judge?" He took a glance himself through the back kitchen window. "But yeah, that clown picture...Geez. I can see into the living room from here. Oh my God, that is the ugliest couch I have ever seen."
"I know, right? The 70's called, they want you to forget that pattern ever happened." Dean kept his hand on the barrel of his gun as he crept through the icy layer of snow beneath the windowsill. "Put whatever psychobabble spin you want on it, this is just plain creepy. Not even hermits live this sparse a life." They crept to the front steps, guns drawn. "Will you knock or will I?"
"I'd be happy to do it," Castiel said, smiling. He marched to the front door, his index finger and thumb pointing, his remaining fingers curled back, in the manner of an imaginary gun. He rapped hard enough on the front door to leave large welts in the wood. "FBI! Open up! We have the place surrounded!"
Castiel gave Dean a happy thumbs up as a panicked human being ran for the front door.
"Maybe you got a point," Dean said to his brother as they rushed the opening door and forced their way into the house. "Maybe all families are just plain fucked."