Crowley's Christmas Fic Exchange: A Crowley Carol for Midnightsilvers
Title: A Crowley Carol
Author: ellerkay
Characters: Crowley, Rowena, Castiel, Donna, Sam, Dean, Jack, Death, Jody
Rating: R/Mature
Genre: Gen, Humor
Word Count: ~5250
Disclaimer: All for fun, none for profit.
Summary: It’s “A Christmas Carol” and Crowley is Scrooge! He is NOT happy about it.
Warnings/tags: Swearing, alcohol (including alcohol drunk by child!Fergus, as Crowley mentions in canon), Crowley’s sad childhood, the sad childhood Crowley gave Gavin, Jack being sick with nephilim pox or something…I swear this is mostly a comedy, but it IS “A Christmas Carol” homage, so there had to be angst before the happy ending.
A/N: This doesn’t fit into canon anywhere, really, but while I considered doing a full AU and there would have been some really fun elements to that, it probably would have taken more time than I had. And I liked the idea of a story that felt like it almost could have fit into canon, kinda sorta, if things had happened differently.
This was written for the spn_bigpretzel 2021 Crowley’s Christmas Fic Exchange. Gift for the wonderful and very talented midnightsilvers! I hope you like this, my friend. What a spectacular prompt. This was a joy to write.
***
Rowena was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that. Crowley had seen her die, himself, and although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone - not ever, not under the most heinous of tortures - it had wrenched his heart to see her go. Later, in the privacy of his penthouse, he’d allowed himself a single tear. He’d watched his hand shake as it rolled down his cheek.
And then he’d balled that hand into a fist, wiped the tear away with a red silk handkerchief, poured himself a generous tumbler of Glencraig, and got on with his demonic life. It was nothing to him that the witch was dead.
But she was, most certainly, dead. Which was why it was very surprising when he looked up from the licking flames in the fireplace on Christmas Eve and saw her standing a few feet away, watching him.
She looked like any ghost; pale and spectral, yet herself in every detail. A chain wrapped around her waist and connected with her wrists, binding them together.
Crowley blinked, then collected himself in an instant. “Mother,” he said in greeting. “Never thought you’d make a ghost. What unfinished business could you possibly have?” He nodded towards the chair opposite him. “Have a seat.”
“Fergus,” Rowena said, flashing her wicked grin. She winked out of existence for a heartbeat, then reappeared in the chair, lounging, apparently quite at her ease despite the chains.
“How’s Hell?” Crowley asked, sipping his Craig.
“About what you’d expect.” Rowena stifled a yawn. “Clever of you to cut ties with it. They don’t have any idea what they’re doing, really. I’ll be running the place any minute; you mark my words.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Crowley sniffed. “But then why are you here?”
Rowena smiled, more delicately this time. “My unfinished business, darling. It’s you.”
Crowley snorted. “Let me guess,” he said, voice thick with sarcasm. “Three spirits are going to visit me in the night?” He lifted the whiskey to his lips and drank. Rowena was silent. When Crowley looked at her again, she’d crossed her arms across her chest.
“Well, that certainly takes the drama out of it!” she exclaimed, glowering.
Crowley’s head jerked back like he’d been hit. “No,” he said.
Rowena scowled. “Some squirrelly little man with a beard came into my cell and told me we were doing an homage! I don’t know who he was, but he was sort of cute and he simply reeked of power, so of course I agreed to help - for some assistance in taking over Hell. You’d best not go spoiling it!”
“Bloody no!” Crowley shouted. “I’m not doing this!”
But Rowena was rising to her feet. Somehow, despite her diminutive stature, she seemed to tower over him, the way she had when he was a tiny child.
“Hear me,” Rowena intoned, her voice suddenly loud and echoing. She pointed at him. “Tonight, you shall be visited by three spirits. Listen for the toll of the bells.”
“I’d really rather not.”
Rowena held out her chained hands. When she spoke, her voice had returned to normal. “Do you want to end up like this?”
“If it was with the right partner, absolutely.”
With a parting glare, Rowena began to fade. “Well, you don’t have any bloody choice in the matter, so buckle up, laddie.”
***
Determined not to give in, Crowley put on his black silk pajamas and got into bed. This was not happening. It was not. He didn’t need to sleep, but he could when he wanted to and he was most certainly choosing unconsciousness over a Christmas classic.
But it didn’t work. He tossed and turned and when the clock struck one - why had he insisted on buying that grandfather clock? - he sat up and waited for the inevitable.
A brilliant light filled the room and Crowley shielded his eyes a moment too late. Light didn’t usually affect him like it would a human, but this kind of light was different.
When his vision cleared, Crowley was more annoyed than surprised.
“Feathers,” he groaned. “Don’t tell me you’ve been dragged into this nonsense as well.”
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” droned Castiel.
“No, you’re fucking not,” Crowley said. “Go away.”
Castiel frowned at him. “Well, it is the role I am acting in tonight,” he said. “I have been charged with a sacred duty.”
“You’re a sacred pain in my arse!” Crowley shot back.
Silently, Castiel held out his hand. Crowley stared at it for a long moment, then gave a long-suffering sigh. “You’re not going away until we play This Is Your Life, are you?”
Castiel said nothing. Grumbling, Crowley clambered out of bed. “Fine. Fine. Just let me get dressed, and we’ll -”
But Castiel grabbed his hand and the world seemed to dissolve into blackness.
***
A room came into focus; a pathetic little shack, dirty and cold and all too familiar. Crowley snarled and whirled on Castiel.
“This isn’t going to affect me,” he growled. “So, I had a lousy childhood. It’s not as though I don’t remember it.”
“Shhh,” Castiel said. “Watch.”
“Mother,” said a small boy nursing a cup of whiskey, “shall we have Christmas?” He hiccupped.
“There’s your Christmas, Fergus,” said Rowena harshly, nodding at his drink. She looked very young, and she was too thin, with dark circles under her eyes. “Drink it down and get to bed, would you?”
Silently, Fergus did. He crawled into his small, hard bed on the floor and pulled the inadequate blanket over himself, shutting his eyes.
Rowena was silent and motionless in her chair by the fireplace, full of barely-glowing coals. But Crowley realized after a few minutes that she was watching her son - watching him, as he had been so long ago.
When Fergus’ breathing had evened out and his sad little face relaxed into sleep, Rowena took a last drink from the bottle in her hand, set it on the table, rose, and crossed the room. She knelt by her son’s bed and reached out with trembling fingers to smooth Fergus’ curls away from his face.
“You must understand, Fergus,” she whispered, “that the warmth of the whiskey is all the warmth I can give you. Its oblivion is the only comfort I can provide. The world is harsh, and - ” her breath caught on a sob, “if I loved you, it would only make you too soft to handle it. If I loved you, I would only ruin us both.”
She put her hands over her face for an instant, then brushed her tears away and got briskly to her feet. She returned to her seat by the fireplace and took up the bottle again.
Something white floated into Crowley’s field of vision. It took him a moment to realize that Castiel was holding out a handkerchief. He took it without looking at the angel and wiped his own tears away.
“This proves nothing,” he said. “I’ve seen Scrooged. Everyone cries when they see their mothers. This is nothing but a dirty trick. And you forget that I know what she’s really like.”
Castiel’s hand landed on his shoulder and the world dissolved again.
***
This time, Crowley saw before him an eighteenth-century parlor; not richly appointed, but comfortable enough. He saw himself, Fergus, a grown man now, sitting in his own chair by the fire, the ubiquitous glass of Craig in his hands. A boy, perhaps seven years old, sat at his feet.
Crowley turned to Castiel. “I hate you,” he said.
“That may be, but you still have to watch this,” Castiel replied. Crowley seethed.
“Christmas is almost over,” said Gavin MacLeod, his child’s voice high and piping. Crowley ground his teeth.
“I bloody know what time it is,” snapped Fergus.
“Will - will I have a present this year?” Gavin asked tremulously.
Fergus gave a slow blink and touched his coat-pocket. In it, Crowley well knew, was a small wooden boat, meant as a gift for the child. He’d stitched the sail himself from spare cloth.
Gavin brightened at the motion. Fergus scowled when he saw the boy’s face.
“You’re too old to be expecting presents all the time,” he snarled. “Do you think the world’s just going to hand you everything your wee heart desires? Go to bed.”
Looking crestfallen, Gavin rose and silently left the room. Fergus drained his glass and poured another, his expression angry and miserable.
“All right,” Crowley growled, “I had a terrible mother and went on to be a terrible father. Again, what are you trying to prove?”
“It’s very interesting,” Castiel said thoughtfully, “how differently two people can interpret what they see.”
“What the hell are you on about, angel?”
“You and Rowena both wanted to love your children, and yet you were afraid to. Afraid that being loved would make your children weak. Or perhaps that it would make you weak.”
Crowley swallowed past a lump in his throat. “I really, really hate you.”
“And yet,” Castiel continued as if Crowley hadn’t spoken, “centuries later, after you were a demon, no less, this happened.”
He put his hand on Crowley’s arm.
***
A shabby study, dusty and piled high with books. Crowley groaned aloud.
“This is Christmas, 2010,” Castiel said.
“I bloody know when it is, you angelic fucker. It wasn’t that long ago.”
Bobby Singer came into the room and sat down at his desk with a sigh.
“This is the year you and I were working together,” Castiel said. He looked down. “We thought that what we were doing was for the best - ”
“You thought it was for the best. I was just trying to expand Hell’s holdings and my own power.”
“ - but in the process, we were betraying Sam, Dean, and Bobby.”
“Again, just you were betraying them. They were barely my acquaintances.”
“We were betraying them,” Castiel repeated, “and yet, here you are.”
Bobby was just raising a bottle when Crowley - 2010 Crowley - appeared in the doorway holding a bottle of his own. A red and green ribbon was tied around the neck.
“I cannot,” said 2010 Crowley, “watch you drink that garbage water anymore.”
Bobby’s brow creased as he stared at him. “What in the hell are you doing here? Two months ago I had to threaten your life to get you to give me my soul back!”
2010 Crowley shrugged. “Christmas truce,” he said. He walked to the desk and held out the bottle. “Here.”
“I know this is a trick,” Bobby said, not moving.
2010 Crowley heaved a weary sigh. He cracked the bottle, grabbed a clean glass from the sideboard, poured himself a taste, and swallowed it down.
“See?” he said. “Safe as houses.”
“Doesn’t hurt a demon. That don’t prove it won’t poison me,” Bobby retorted.
2010 Crowley rolled his eyes. “Listen closely, because I’m only going to say this once and I will deny to the death ever having said it. Two months ago, you got one over on me. Subsequently, despite my best efforts, I may have found,” he winced, “a modicum of respect for you.”
Bobby’s eyes widened.
“So.” 2010 Crowley tapped the bottle. “You get Craig, as a token of my very mild respect, and because I will burn my bones myself if I have to see you drink any more of that piss you normally imbibe. Season’s greetings.” He raised his hand, fingers already moving into snapping position.
“Wait,” Bobby said. His posture had finally relaxed a little. He reached for the Glencraig and poured himself a generous amount, then refilled Crowley’s glass. He nodded at one of the chairs in front of his desk. “You might as well sit a spell and watch me drink the good stuff, then.” He gave 2010 Crowley a sharp glance. “Christmas truce. This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
“I’ll weep over that in my Hello Kitty diary tonight,” 2010 Crowley said sarcastically, but he lowered himself into the chair and picked up his glass. “Cheers.”
As they clinked glasses, Crowley felt Castiel’s hand on his shoulder again. The scene vanished.
***
“Finally,” Crowley muttered. They were back in his bedroom now. He waved at Castiel. “All right. Begone.”
“You reached out in friendship to someone who you knew would have no one on the holiday,” Castiel said.
“I drank whiskey with a fellow grumpy alcoholic. It’s not exactly a Hallmark card, angel.”
Castiel looked steadily at him. “There is good in you, Crowley.”
“Take that back,” Crowley growled.
Castiel kept staring at him for a long moment. “Sleep well,” he said finally. He touched Crowley’s forehead, and this time, Crowley did.
***
He awoke when the clock struck two. As Crowley opened his eyes, he realized that the room was again filled with light: softer, this time, and without the retina-burning properties of Castiel’s angelic grace.
He sat bolt upright. Looking around, he saw that the room had been decorated. Very thoroughly decorated. A giant tree in the corner with all the Christmas trimmings; colored lights everywhere, some of them blinking; a model Christmas town set on a large table; another table piled high with Christmas cookies; on and on. Crowley wasn’t sure how the room was able to contain it all.
“Oh! You’re awake! Well, let’s get to know each other!” It was a bright, female voice with a strong Minnesota accent. Crowley found the source of the voice standing in the doorway: a blonde woman in her 30s, wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and a headband with fuzzy little reindeer antlers attached to it. She was positively beaming as she came towards Crowley, holding out a glass towards him.
“Nog?” she offered. Crowley grabbed it from her hand.
“Please tell me it’s spiked,” he said. She laughed.
“Of course! It’s the holidays.”
Crowley downed it without a word. It would be better without all the eggnog elements, but at least there was finally an upside to this nightmare.
“Thirsty, huh?” the woman asked. “I guess you’ve already had quite a night. Don’t worry - there’s more where that came from!” Sure enough, Crowley’s glass was full again. He took another sip as he studied the woman.
“I don’t know you,” he said finally.
“I’m the Ghost of Christmas Present, don’tchaknow!” she said cheerily. “At least, I am tonight. I don’t really understand what’s happening, I have to admit. But who could pass up the opportunity to spread some Christmas cheer, amirite?” She clinked her glass of eggnog against Crowley’s. “Merry Christmas! And hey, why don’t you just call me Donna? Ghost of Christmas Present is such a mouthful, and anyway, we’re friends now.” She aimed that dazzling smile in Crowley’s direction again.
Crowley closed his eyes for a moment. “I never thought I’d miss the angel,” he muttered under his breath.
“Ooh, was the first spirit an angel?” Donna asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Crowley said shortly. “What say you we get this show on the road? The sooner we start, the sooner this hell on Earth will be over.”
Donna smiled kindly at him. “If you like.” She put a warm hand on Crowley’s shoulder.
***
Crowley was in the Men of Letters’ bunker, in the library. He gave a despairing moan.
“Aren’t I suffering enough without having to visit these plaid-decked monstrosities?” he complained.
“Aw, I think Sam and Dean are good guys,” Donna replied.
“You would.”
“And Jack’s a sweetheart.”
“Who?”
“Jack?” This time, the voice came from another room. Sam entered a moment later. “Jack?” he called again.
What Crowley had taken for a bundle of rags on one of the armchairs stirred. A hand appeared, pushing aside a blanket and revealing the face of a young man. He yawned.
“I’m here,” Jack said.
Sam smiled at him, but there was a worried edge to it. “Hey, Jack. Are you feeling okay?”
“Sure,” Jack said. “I just got a little tired. I was only going to close my eyes for a few minutes, but I guess I fell asleep.”
Sam nodded, looking more worried but clearly trying to suppress it.
The door to the outside clanged shut above them. Jack and Sam both looked up as Dean clattered down the stairs.
“I’m back,” he called. “I’ve got lights, I’ve got ornaments, I’ve got booze, I’ve got nog.” He nodded at Sam as he got to the bottom of the stairs, then fixed Jack with a stern look. “How you feeling, kid? You up to some decorating?”
Jack nodded, smiling. “I’m fine,” he said. “I took a nap.”
For a moment, Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but finally he gave a short nod. “Good. You can start by helping me with the lights.”
They went into the next room, where, Crowley was startled to realize, the map table had been cleared away to make room for a large pine tree.
“Did Dean bring that here on his car?” Crowley asked.
“Dean? Oh, sure,” Donna said casually. “It’s Jack’s first Christmas. I think he wanted to make sure it was special.”
“Dean Winchester?” Crowley demanded. “Risking sap and needles on the car he loves more than anything, give or take a truly terrifying codependency with his gigantor of a brother?”
“Well, like I said, Jack’s a real sweet kid.”
“As far as I can tell, Jack is the human equivalent of Elmo.”
“Shhh; I want to watch them decorate,” Donna said.
Crowley fell silent and drank his eggnog as the scene, almost as saccharine sweet as his drink, played out in front of them.
Dean made Jack sit down while he strung up the lights - “you’re management” - asking Jack to point out when the lights were getting clumped up or uneven. About the time he finished, Sam had reappeared with a plate of Christmas cookies and three mugs of hot cocoa. They started opening up the boxes of ornaments Dean had bought and hanging them on the tree as they ate cookies and sipped cocoa. Dean played Frank Sinatra Christmas music from his phone.
The whole time, the three were chatting and laughing. Crowley tried to tell himself that he was bored senseless, but he couldn’t stop watching. He’d never seen the Winchesters so relaxed, and Jack was beaming at everything, face lit up as though it, too, were strung with Christmas lights.
“Dude,” Dean said as they neared the end of the boxes of ornaments, holding one out for Sam’s inspection, “check this out. I couldn’t resist. Who does it remind you of?”
Sam took it and inspected it for a moment. Crowley took an unconscious step closer to see: it was a little devil with pitchfork and horns, but it was wearing a neat black suit. Sam burst out laughing.
“I can’t believe you found a Crowley ornament,” he said as he handed it back to Dean. Crowley flinched and looked reflexively at Donna, who smiled at him so sincerely that Crowley had to immediately break eye contact.
“Right? What are the odds?” Dean chuckled as he hung the ornament. Crowley felt a strange little glow in his chest at the idea that he was included in their Christmas celebration in some small way. He took another drink to try and get rid of it.
“What’s a Crowley?” Jack asked, hanging a reindeer ornament with a look of great concentration.
Dean snorted. “He’s a demon. And a dick.”
The warm feeling in Crowley’s chest vanished like a fire doused with ice water.
“Not all the time,” Sam amended quickly. “He helps us out sometimes.”
“Thanks for the faintest of praise, moose,” Crowley muttered.
“Remember when he started hunting down the people we’d saved and killing them in chronological order?” Dean shot back.
Sam winced. Crowley winced right along with him. He felt even colder.
“That was bad,” Sam agreed. “Really bad. But…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve all done some pretty bad things. And Crowley hasn’t pulled anything like than in years. He’s a friend now.”
Dean snorted.
“Friend-adjacent,” Sam tried. Dean made a weighing motion with his hands, face doubtful.
Jack’s brow was creased in thought as he carefully hung another ornament. “If he used to do bad things, but now he helps you, then he can’t be all bad.” He smiled at them. “Maybe Crowley’s getting better.”
Crowley stared at the boy, unsure of what he was feeling after that.
“And maybe Hell will get air conditioning,” Dean mumbled, but he had the grace to look slightly ashamed in the face of Jack’s kindness.
“Maybe he is getting better,” Sam agreed, smiling back at Jack.
Suddenly, Jack started coughing; a deep, worrying sound. As one, Sam and Dean stepped towards him. They guided him to a chair. When Jack finally stopped coughing and pulled his hand away from his mouth, Crowley saw blood on it.
He rounded on Donna. “What the hell is wrong with that boy?”
Donna shook her head, looking sad. “I’m not entirely sure. Something’s out of balance. He’s a nephilim, and they’re rare.”
“Well.” Crowley folded his arms over his chest and glowered at nothing in particular. “Those idiots had better come up with a solution. They will, of course. They’re morons, but they’re stubborn.” He stole a glance at Donna, who said nothing. His frown deepened. “They will figure it out, won’t they?”
“I have a bad feeling,” Donna said slowly, “that if something doesn’t change, this will be Jack’s first Christmas and his last one, too.”
Crowley stared at the young man, so intently that he didn’t notice Donna’s arm on his shoulder until the world went dark around him.
***
They were back in his bedroom. The food and decorations were gone; even the glass of eggnog in his hand had vanished.
“Is that it?” Crowley asked Donna. “Aren’t you going to show me Ignorance and Want like in the original story, or something equally ridiculous?”
“With your upbringing, I think you already know all about them,” Donna said. She smiled sadly at him, eyes alight with warmth. “One more spirit for you, right? Not the fun one, I suppose. Merry Christmas, Crowley, and good luck. I’m rootin’ for ya.”
And she disappeared. Crowley sat on the edge of his bed and waited, suppressing a shiver. There was no physical reason for it - he doesn’t feel the cold - but there was a chill in the room that went beyond temperature. It felt very empty all of a sudden, and Crowley felt very alone.
It had just occurred to him that he could get dressed and face the last spirit in actual clothing when the clock struck three. Crowley sighed deeply and shut his eyes for a second. Might as well get this over with.
A pale, gaunt figure stood before him wearing a well-tailored suit and coat, leaning on a cane. No scythe in sight, for which Crowley was profoundly grateful.
“I like your suit,” Crowley said.
“I like your pajamas,” Death replied.
Crowley swallowed, trying to keep his cool. There were very few beings which struck real fear into his heart, but this was one of them. “Thanks for dropping in. It’s an…” he swallowed again, “…honor to meet you. Never had the pleasure before.”
“Yes,” Death said thoughtfully. “You avoided me in Chicago.”
“Well, there was an apocalypse on,” Crowley said. “Lots to do.”
“Mmm.” Death studied him, his steady gaze deeply unnerving. “If I’d known what you’d become, I probably would have reaped you myself when you died as Fergus MacLeod. But there really wasn’t any indication.”
Crowley shrugged. “Sort of found my groove after death, I guess you’d say.”
“Hell does seem to have agreed with you.”
Feeling mysteriously emboldened - perhaps it was hysteria - Crowley said, “You’re awfully chatty for a Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. I thought it was meant to be the strong, silent type.”
There was a hint of a smile on Death’s face. “I’m not always as much of a stickler for the rules as I like people to think,” he said. “I’m doing this as a favor to an old friend, but mostly because I thought it would be amusing. Staying quiet and pointing wouldn’t have been as fun. In any case, I think it’s time we move this along.”
He didn’t touch Crowley, but the world turned black.
It stayed black.
Crowley looked around. Except for Death, still standing in front of him, there was absolutely nothing to see.
“What is this?” he asked, hating the slight quaver he couldn’t keep out of his voice.
“Have you ever wondered where demons go when they die?” Death asked. His voice was soft and mild, yet the question struck terror into Crowley’s heart.
“Always figured…oblivion,” Crowley said uncertainly. “Demon is a twisted soul - what’s left when you kill a soul?”
“More than you’d think,” Death said. “But in a way, you’re not far off the mark.” He nodded at the surrounding void. “This is the Empty. Angels and demons come here if they’re killed. You will sleep, and you will dream of your regrets.”
Crowley shuddered. He couldn’t help it. “What do you want from me?” he demanded, voice cracking. He put his hands over his eyes, no longer able to bear the sight of the infinite darkness. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You know the story as well as I do, I’m sure.” Death sounded wryly amused. “So many adaptations. Personally, I’m partial to the one with the Muppets.”
This was such an outrageous claim for this entity in particular to make that Crowley had to look up -
- only to find himself back in his bedroom, alone.
He was sitting up in bed, but under the covers, as though he’d slept.
“Fucking hell,” Crowley whispered. He lunged for his phone on the bedside table and squinted at the display. December 25th. 4 AM.
There was still time.
***
It was 1 PM and everyone who’d been able to attend this year was gathered in the Men of Letters bunker: Sam, Dean, and Jack were there, of course, and so were Castiel, Jody, and Donna.
They’d opened presents and were just finishing eating a huge brunch courtesy of Dean’s cooking (with Donna’s enthusiastic help) when there was a loud banging at the door.
Dean was out of his seat in an instant, gun drawn, Sam right behind him. Dean headed up the stairs to the door; Sam stayed at the bottom, gun in one hand, demon-killing knife in the other. Dean opened the door.
“Happy fucking Christmas,” Crowley said, shoving a large sack into Dean’s chest and breezing past him down the stairs.
“The hell are you doing here?” Dean demanded, clomping after him. “Hey, hey, don’t put your gun away!” This last was directed at Sam, who rolled his eyes.
“Merry Christmas,” Sam said to Crowley, bemused. “What are you doing here?”
“Spreading holiday cheer,” Crowley snapped. “And saving your sorry hides, as usual.”
With a suspicious glare, Dean opened the bag and started rummaging through it. The first thing he pulled out was a bottle of top-shelf whiskey. His face brightened. “Wait, is this for me?” His face immediately darkened again. “What’s the trick?”
“It’s not a trick,” Crowley said. He’d begun chalking a magic circle onto the floor and was about halfway done. “I had some truly awful dreams last night. And you were there,” he straightened up to point at Castiel, who tilted his head in confusion, “and you were there.” He pointed at Donna this time. Her eyes went wide. “And someone else was there too, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I did wake up thinking I’d had a weird dream last night…” Donna said. “But for the life of me I couldn’t remember it.”
Crowley wasn’t done. He pointed at Jody. “You - sorry for the time I nearly killed you.”
Jody gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Roderick!” she whispered. “I knew I knew you from somewhere.” She glared at him. “You know, not only did I almost die on that bathroom floor, but you left me with the check.”
Crowley looked embarrassed. “Utterly classless of me. I truly am sorry.” He went back to drawing the circle.
There was a long silence. “So, were you visited by three ghosts last night, or what?” Dean asked finally.
“I said I didn’t want to talk about it, Squirrel!” Crowley bellowed. He finished the circle and said a few words in Latin. Rowena appeared in the middle of it, dressed in a form-fitting dark green velvet dress.
“Hello, boys,” she purred. She caught sight of Donna and Jody and gave a feral grin. “And ladies! This is a first. What a treat.”
“Crowley, what’s going on?” Sam asked.
“The things in the bag are trinkets,” Crowley said. “This is your real present.”
“Your mother is our Christmas present?” Dean asked dryly.
“My mother, yes. My mother, one of the most powerful and knowledgeable witches to ever walk this planet. My mother, who was just crowned Queen of Hell, and therefore now has all its resources at her disposal.” Crowley snapped his fingers and pointed at Jack. “If she can’t help you save the whippersnapper, I’ll eat my own naughty bits.”
“Why would you say that?” Dean groaned.
“Because it’s true,” Crowley shot back. “And you know how attached I am to them.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t talk about them all the time.”
Sam was looking through the sack now. He pulled out an ancient book on magic and his eyes widened. “How’d you get this? I’ve seen references to it, but even the Men of Letters don’t have a copy.”
“Elves,” Crowley said. “Look, start passing things out, would you? There’s something for everyone. I had a feeling Feathers and those women would be joining you.”
Sam carried the sack into the library and started unloading its contents. Dean and Rowena followed him. Crowley took a deep breath, closing his eyes and sagging against the staircase. Being a decent person was exhausting. He would take a moment to collect himself before joining them. Reluctantly. It wasn’t appealing at all, he told himself; he just didn’t want to end up in the Empty.
“Hello,” said a bright voice. Crowley jumped, his eyes flying open. Jack was standing right in front of him, smiling broadly.
“I just wanted to say merry Christmas,” Jack continued, “and to thank you for what you did for me.”
“It was nothing,” Crowley said. “Just saving my own skin.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Jack replied thoughtfully. “But either way, I appreciate it. It’s the act that’s most important, don’t you think?” His smile, somehow, got wider. “Maybe I could call you Uncle Crowley?”
Before Crowley could tell him ‘absolutely not’ and ‘not in a million years,’ Jack put his arms around him in a hug. Crowley stayed frozen for a second, because he certainly hadn’t seen this coming. Surely Death ought to have warned him about these dire consequences. He should push the lad away.
Instead, Crowley somehow found himself hugging Jack in return. Only for a moment, before he side-stepped neatly away, but still. It made his chest ache strangely.
Jack bestowed one last beaming smile on him before turning to rejoin the others in the library. Crowley followed, deciding he’d explain to the boy later that he was not and would never be ‘Uncle Crowley.’
Yes, he’d get around to that just as quick as could be.
Author: ellerkay
Characters: Crowley, Rowena, Castiel, Donna, Sam, Dean, Jack, Death, Jody
Rating: R/Mature
Genre: Gen, Humor
Word Count: ~5250
Disclaimer: All for fun, none for profit.
Summary: It’s “A Christmas Carol” and Crowley is Scrooge! He is NOT happy about it.
Warnings/tags: Swearing, alcohol (including alcohol drunk by child!Fergus, as Crowley mentions in canon), Crowley’s sad childhood, the sad childhood Crowley gave Gavin, Jack being sick with nephilim pox or something…I swear this is mostly a comedy, but it IS “A Christmas Carol” homage, so there had to be angst before the happy ending.
A/N: This doesn’t fit into canon anywhere, really, but while I considered doing a full AU and there would have been some really fun elements to that, it probably would have taken more time than I had. And I liked the idea of a story that felt like it almost could have fit into canon, kinda sorta, if things had happened differently.
This was written for the spn_bigpretzel 2021 Crowley’s Christmas Fic Exchange. Gift for the wonderful and very talented midnightsilvers! I hope you like this, my friend. What a spectacular prompt. This was a joy to write.
***
Rowena was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that. Crowley had seen her die, himself, and although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone - not ever, not under the most heinous of tortures - it had wrenched his heart to see her go. Later, in the privacy of his penthouse, he’d allowed himself a single tear. He’d watched his hand shake as it rolled down his cheek.
And then he’d balled that hand into a fist, wiped the tear away with a red silk handkerchief, poured himself a generous tumbler of Glencraig, and got on with his demonic life. It was nothing to him that the witch was dead.
But she was, most certainly, dead. Which was why it was very surprising when he looked up from the licking flames in the fireplace on Christmas Eve and saw her standing a few feet away, watching him.
She looked like any ghost; pale and spectral, yet herself in every detail. A chain wrapped around her waist and connected with her wrists, binding them together.
Crowley blinked, then collected himself in an instant. “Mother,” he said in greeting. “Never thought you’d make a ghost. What unfinished business could you possibly have?” He nodded towards the chair opposite him. “Have a seat.”
“Fergus,” Rowena said, flashing her wicked grin. She winked out of existence for a heartbeat, then reappeared in the chair, lounging, apparently quite at her ease despite the chains.
“How’s Hell?” Crowley asked, sipping his Craig.
“About what you’d expect.” Rowena stifled a yawn. “Clever of you to cut ties with it. They don’t have any idea what they’re doing, really. I’ll be running the place any minute; you mark my words.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Crowley sniffed. “But then why are you here?”
Rowena smiled, more delicately this time. “My unfinished business, darling. It’s you.”
Crowley snorted. “Let me guess,” he said, voice thick with sarcasm. “Three spirits are going to visit me in the night?” He lifted the whiskey to his lips and drank. Rowena was silent. When Crowley looked at her again, she’d crossed her arms across her chest.
“Well, that certainly takes the drama out of it!” she exclaimed, glowering.
Crowley’s head jerked back like he’d been hit. “No,” he said.
Rowena scowled. “Some squirrelly little man with a beard came into my cell and told me we were doing an homage! I don’t know who he was, but he was sort of cute and he simply reeked of power, so of course I agreed to help - for some assistance in taking over Hell. You’d best not go spoiling it!”
“Bloody no!” Crowley shouted. “I’m not doing this!”
But Rowena was rising to her feet. Somehow, despite her diminutive stature, she seemed to tower over him, the way she had when he was a tiny child.
“Hear me,” Rowena intoned, her voice suddenly loud and echoing. She pointed at him. “Tonight, you shall be visited by three spirits. Listen for the toll of the bells.”
“I’d really rather not.”
Rowena held out her chained hands. When she spoke, her voice had returned to normal. “Do you want to end up like this?”
“If it was with the right partner, absolutely.”
With a parting glare, Rowena began to fade. “Well, you don’t have any bloody choice in the matter, so buckle up, laddie.”
***
Determined not to give in, Crowley put on his black silk pajamas and got into bed. This was not happening. It was not. He didn’t need to sleep, but he could when he wanted to and he was most certainly choosing unconsciousness over a Christmas classic.
But it didn’t work. He tossed and turned and when the clock struck one - why had he insisted on buying that grandfather clock? - he sat up and waited for the inevitable.
A brilliant light filled the room and Crowley shielded his eyes a moment too late. Light didn’t usually affect him like it would a human, but this kind of light was different.
When his vision cleared, Crowley was more annoyed than surprised.
“Feathers,” he groaned. “Don’t tell me you’ve been dragged into this nonsense as well.”
“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” droned Castiel.
“No, you’re fucking not,” Crowley said. “Go away.”
Castiel frowned at him. “Well, it is the role I am acting in tonight,” he said. “I have been charged with a sacred duty.”
“You’re a sacred pain in my arse!” Crowley shot back.
Silently, Castiel held out his hand. Crowley stared at it for a long moment, then gave a long-suffering sigh. “You’re not going away until we play This Is Your Life, are you?”
Castiel said nothing. Grumbling, Crowley clambered out of bed. “Fine. Fine. Just let me get dressed, and we’ll -”
But Castiel grabbed his hand and the world seemed to dissolve into blackness.
***
A room came into focus; a pathetic little shack, dirty and cold and all too familiar. Crowley snarled and whirled on Castiel.
“This isn’t going to affect me,” he growled. “So, I had a lousy childhood. It’s not as though I don’t remember it.”
“Shhh,” Castiel said. “Watch.”
“Mother,” said a small boy nursing a cup of whiskey, “shall we have Christmas?” He hiccupped.
“There’s your Christmas, Fergus,” said Rowena harshly, nodding at his drink. She looked very young, and she was too thin, with dark circles under her eyes. “Drink it down and get to bed, would you?”
Silently, Fergus did. He crawled into his small, hard bed on the floor and pulled the inadequate blanket over himself, shutting his eyes.
Rowena was silent and motionless in her chair by the fireplace, full of barely-glowing coals. But Crowley realized after a few minutes that she was watching her son - watching him, as he had been so long ago.
When Fergus’ breathing had evened out and his sad little face relaxed into sleep, Rowena took a last drink from the bottle in her hand, set it on the table, rose, and crossed the room. She knelt by her son’s bed and reached out with trembling fingers to smooth Fergus’ curls away from his face.
“You must understand, Fergus,” she whispered, “that the warmth of the whiskey is all the warmth I can give you. Its oblivion is the only comfort I can provide. The world is harsh, and - ” her breath caught on a sob, “if I loved you, it would only make you too soft to handle it. If I loved you, I would only ruin us both.”
She put her hands over her face for an instant, then brushed her tears away and got briskly to her feet. She returned to her seat by the fireplace and took up the bottle again.
Something white floated into Crowley’s field of vision. It took him a moment to realize that Castiel was holding out a handkerchief. He took it without looking at the angel and wiped his own tears away.
“This proves nothing,” he said. “I’ve seen Scrooged. Everyone cries when they see their mothers. This is nothing but a dirty trick. And you forget that I know what she’s really like.”
Castiel’s hand landed on his shoulder and the world dissolved again.
***
This time, Crowley saw before him an eighteenth-century parlor; not richly appointed, but comfortable enough. He saw himself, Fergus, a grown man now, sitting in his own chair by the fire, the ubiquitous glass of Craig in his hands. A boy, perhaps seven years old, sat at his feet.
Crowley turned to Castiel. “I hate you,” he said.
“That may be, but you still have to watch this,” Castiel replied. Crowley seethed.
“Christmas is almost over,” said Gavin MacLeod, his child’s voice high and piping. Crowley ground his teeth.
“I bloody know what time it is,” snapped Fergus.
“Will - will I have a present this year?” Gavin asked tremulously.
Fergus gave a slow blink and touched his coat-pocket. In it, Crowley well knew, was a small wooden boat, meant as a gift for the child. He’d stitched the sail himself from spare cloth.
Gavin brightened at the motion. Fergus scowled when he saw the boy’s face.
“You’re too old to be expecting presents all the time,” he snarled. “Do you think the world’s just going to hand you everything your wee heart desires? Go to bed.”
Looking crestfallen, Gavin rose and silently left the room. Fergus drained his glass and poured another, his expression angry and miserable.
“All right,” Crowley growled, “I had a terrible mother and went on to be a terrible father. Again, what are you trying to prove?”
“It’s very interesting,” Castiel said thoughtfully, “how differently two people can interpret what they see.”
“What the hell are you on about, angel?”
“You and Rowena both wanted to love your children, and yet you were afraid to. Afraid that being loved would make your children weak. Or perhaps that it would make you weak.”
Crowley swallowed past a lump in his throat. “I really, really hate you.”
“And yet,” Castiel continued as if Crowley hadn’t spoken, “centuries later, after you were a demon, no less, this happened.”
He put his hand on Crowley’s arm.
***
A shabby study, dusty and piled high with books. Crowley groaned aloud.
“This is Christmas, 2010,” Castiel said.
“I bloody know when it is, you angelic fucker. It wasn’t that long ago.”
Bobby Singer came into the room and sat down at his desk with a sigh.
“This is the year you and I were working together,” Castiel said. He looked down. “We thought that what we were doing was for the best - ”
“You thought it was for the best. I was just trying to expand Hell’s holdings and my own power.”
“ - but in the process, we were betraying Sam, Dean, and Bobby.”
“Again, just you were betraying them. They were barely my acquaintances.”
“We were betraying them,” Castiel repeated, “and yet, here you are.”
Bobby was just raising a bottle when Crowley - 2010 Crowley - appeared in the doorway holding a bottle of his own. A red and green ribbon was tied around the neck.
“I cannot,” said 2010 Crowley, “watch you drink that garbage water anymore.”
Bobby’s brow creased as he stared at him. “What in the hell are you doing here? Two months ago I had to threaten your life to get you to give me my soul back!”
2010 Crowley shrugged. “Christmas truce,” he said. He walked to the desk and held out the bottle. “Here.”
“I know this is a trick,” Bobby said, not moving.
2010 Crowley heaved a weary sigh. He cracked the bottle, grabbed a clean glass from the sideboard, poured himself a taste, and swallowed it down.
“See?” he said. “Safe as houses.”
“Doesn’t hurt a demon. That don’t prove it won’t poison me,” Bobby retorted.
2010 Crowley rolled his eyes. “Listen closely, because I’m only going to say this once and I will deny to the death ever having said it. Two months ago, you got one over on me. Subsequently, despite my best efforts, I may have found,” he winced, “a modicum of respect for you.”
Bobby’s eyes widened.
“So.” 2010 Crowley tapped the bottle. “You get Craig, as a token of my very mild respect, and because I will burn my bones myself if I have to see you drink any more of that piss you normally imbibe. Season’s greetings.” He raised his hand, fingers already moving into snapping position.
“Wait,” Bobby said. His posture had finally relaxed a little. He reached for the Glencraig and poured himself a generous amount, then refilled Crowley’s glass. He nodded at one of the chairs in front of his desk. “You might as well sit a spell and watch me drink the good stuff, then.” He gave 2010 Crowley a sharp glance. “Christmas truce. This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
“I’ll weep over that in my Hello Kitty diary tonight,” 2010 Crowley said sarcastically, but he lowered himself into the chair and picked up his glass. “Cheers.”
As they clinked glasses, Crowley felt Castiel’s hand on his shoulder again. The scene vanished.
***
“Finally,” Crowley muttered. They were back in his bedroom now. He waved at Castiel. “All right. Begone.”
“You reached out in friendship to someone who you knew would have no one on the holiday,” Castiel said.
“I drank whiskey with a fellow grumpy alcoholic. It’s not exactly a Hallmark card, angel.”
Castiel looked steadily at him. “There is good in you, Crowley.”
“Take that back,” Crowley growled.
Castiel kept staring at him for a long moment. “Sleep well,” he said finally. He touched Crowley’s forehead, and this time, Crowley did.
***
He awoke when the clock struck two. As Crowley opened his eyes, he realized that the room was again filled with light: softer, this time, and without the retina-burning properties of Castiel’s angelic grace.
He sat bolt upright. Looking around, he saw that the room had been decorated. Very thoroughly decorated. A giant tree in the corner with all the Christmas trimmings; colored lights everywhere, some of them blinking; a model Christmas town set on a large table; another table piled high with Christmas cookies; on and on. Crowley wasn’t sure how the room was able to contain it all.
“Oh! You’re awake! Well, let’s get to know each other!” It was a bright, female voice with a strong Minnesota accent. Crowley found the source of the voice standing in the doorway: a blonde woman in her 30s, wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and a headband with fuzzy little reindeer antlers attached to it. She was positively beaming as she came towards Crowley, holding out a glass towards him.
“Nog?” she offered. Crowley grabbed it from her hand.
“Please tell me it’s spiked,” he said. She laughed.
“Of course! It’s the holidays.”
Crowley downed it without a word. It would be better without all the eggnog elements, but at least there was finally an upside to this nightmare.
“Thirsty, huh?” the woman asked. “I guess you’ve already had quite a night. Don’t worry - there’s more where that came from!” Sure enough, Crowley’s glass was full again. He took another sip as he studied the woman.
“I don’t know you,” he said finally.
“I’m the Ghost of Christmas Present, don’tchaknow!” she said cheerily. “At least, I am tonight. I don’t really understand what’s happening, I have to admit. But who could pass up the opportunity to spread some Christmas cheer, amirite?” She clinked her glass of eggnog against Crowley’s. “Merry Christmas! And hey, why don’t you just call me Donna? Ghost of Christmas Present is such a mouthful, and anyway, we’re friends now.” She aimed that dazzling smile in Crowley’s direction again.
Crowley closed his eyes for a moment. “I never thought I’d miss the angel,” he muttered under his breath.
“Ooh, was the first spirit an angel?” Donna asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Crowley said shortly. “What say you we get this show on the road? The sooner we start, the sooner this hell on Earth will be over.”
Donna smiled kindly at him. “If you like.” She put a warm hand on Crowley’s shoulder.
***
Crowley was in the Men of Letters’ bunker, in the library. He gave a despairing moan.
“Aren’t I suffering enough without having to visit these plaid-decked monstrosities?” he complained.
“Aw, I think Sam and Dean are good guys,” Donna replied.
“You would.”
“And Jack’s a sweetheart.”
“Who?”
“Jack?” This time, the voice came from another room. Sam entered a moment later. “Jack?” he called again.
What Crowley had taken for a bundle of rags on one of the armchairs stirred. A hand appeared, pushing aside a blanket and revealing the face of a young man. He yawned.
“I’m here,” Jack said.
Sam smiled at him, but there was a worried edge to it. “Hey, Jack. Are you feeling okay?”
“Sure,” Jack said. “I just got a little tired. I was only going to close my eyes for a few minutes, but I guess I fell asleep.”
Sam nodded, looking more worried but clearly trying to suppress it.
The door to the outside clanged shut above them. Jack and Sam both looked up as Dean clattered down the stairs.
“I’m back,” he called. “I’ve got lights, I’ve got ornaments, I’ve got booze, I’ve got nog.” He nodded at Sam as he got to the bottom of the stairs, then fixed Jack with a stern look. “How you feeling, kid? You up to some decorating?”
Jack nodded, smiling. “I’m fine,” he said. “I took a nap.”
For a moment, Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but finally he gave a short nod. “Good. You can start by helping me with the lights.”
They went into the next room, where, Crowley was startled to realize, the map table had been cleared away to make room for a large pine tree.
“Did Dean bring that here on his car?” Crowley asked.
“Dean? Oh, sure,” Donna said casually. “It’s Jack’s first Christmas. I think he wanted to make sure it was special.”
“Dean Winchester?” Crowley demanded. “Risking sap and needles on the car he loves more than anything, give or take a truly terrifying codependency with his gigantor of a brother?”
“Well, like I said, Jack’s a real sweet kid.”
“As far as I can tell, Jack is the human equivalent of Elmo.”
“Shhh; I want to watch them decorate,” Donna said.
Crowley fell silent and drank his eggnog as the scene, almost as saccharine sweet as his drink, played out in front of them.
Dean made Jack sit down while he strung up the lights - “you’re management” - asking Jack to point out when the lights were getting clumped up or uneven. About the time he finished, Sam had reappeared with a plate of Christmas cookies and three mugs of hot cocoa. They started opening up the boxes of ornaments Dean had bought and hanging them on the tree as they ate cookies and sipped cocoa. Dean played Frank Sinatra Christmas music from his phone.
The whole time, the three were chatting and laughing. Crowley tried to tell himself that he was bored senseless, but he couldn’t stop watching. He’d never seen the Winchesters so relaxed, and Jack was beaming at everything, face lit up as though it, too, were strung with Christmas lights.
“Dude,” Dean said as they neared the end of the boxes of ornaments, holding one out for Sam’s inspection, “check this out. I couldn’t resist. Who does it remind you of?”
Sam took it and inspected it for a moment. Crowley took an unconscious step closer to see: it was a little devil with pitchfork and horns, but it was wearing a neat black suit. Sam burst out laughing.
“I can’t believe you found a Crowley ornament,” he said as he handed it back to Dean. Crowley flinched and looked reflexively at Donna, who smiled at him so sincerely that Crowley had to immediately break eye contact.
“Right? What are the odds?” Dean chuckled as he hung the ornament. Crowley felt a strange little glow in his chest at the idea that he was included in their Christmas celebration in some small way. He took another drink to try and get rid of it.
“What’s a Crowley?” Jack asked, hanging a reindeer ornament with a look of great concentration.
Dean snorted. “He’s a demon. And a dick.”
The warm feeling in Crowley’s chest vanished like a fire doused with ice water.
“Not all the time,” Sam amended quickly. “He helps us out sometimes.”
“Thanks for the faintest of praise, moose,” Crowley muttered.
“Remember when he started hunting down the people we’d saved and killing them in chronological order?” Dean shot back.
Sam winced. Crowley winced right along with him. He felt even colder.
“That was bad,” Sam agreed. “Really bad. But…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve all done some pretty bad things. And Crowley hasn’t pulled anything like than in years. He’s a friend now.”
Dean snorted.
“Friend-adjacent,” Sam tried. Dean made a weighing motion with his hands, face doubtful.
Jack’s brow was creased in thought as he carefully hung another ornament. “If he used to do bad things, but now he helps you, then he can’t be all bad.” He smiled at them. “Maybe Crowley’s getting better.”
Crowley stared at the boy, unsure of what he was feeling after that.
“And maybe Hell will get air conditioning,” Dean mumbled, but he had the grace to look slightly ashamed in the face of Jack’s kindness.
“Maybe he is getting better,” Sam agreed, smiling back at Jack.
Suddenly, Jack started coughing; a deep, worrying sound. As one, Sam and Dean stepped towards him. They guided him to a chair. When Jack finally stopped coughing and pulled his hand away from his mouth, Crowley saw blood on it.
He rounded on Donna. “What the hell is wrong with that boy?”
Donna shook her head, looking sad. “I’m not entirely sure. Something’s out of balance. He’s a nephilim, and they’re rare.”
“Well.” Crowley folded his arms over his chest and glowered at nothing in particular. “Those idiots had better come up with a solution. They will, of course. They’re morons, but they’re stubborn.” He stole a glance at Donna, who said nothing. His frown deepened. “They will figure it out, won’t they?”
“I have a bad feeling,” Donna said slowly, “that if something doesn’t change, this will be Jack’s first Christmas and his last one, too.”
Crowley stared at the young man, so intently that he didn’t notice Donna’s arm on his shoulder until the world went dark around him.
***
They were back in his bedroom. The food and decorations were gone; even the glass of eggnog in his hand had vanished.
“Is that it?” Crowley asked Donna. “Aren’t you going to show me Ignorance and Want like in the original story, or something equally ridiculous?”
“With your upbringing, I think you already know all about them,” Donna said. She smiled sadly at him, eyes alight with warmth. “One more spirit for you, right? Not the fun one, I suppose. Merry Christmas, Crowley, and good luck. I’m rootin’ for ya.”
And she disappeared. Crowley sat on the edge of his bed and waited, suppressing a shiver. There was no physical reason for it - he doesn’t feel the cold - but there was a chill in the room that went beyond temperature. It felt very empty all of a sudden, and Crowley felt very alone.
It had just occurred to him that he could get dressed and face the last spirit in actual clothing when the clock struck three. Crowley sighed deeply and shut his eyes for a second. Might as well get this over with.
A pale, gaunt figure stood before him wearing a well-tailored suit and coat, leaning on a cane. No scythe in sight, for which Crowley was profoundly grateful.
“I like your suit,” Crowley said.
“I like your pajamas,” Death replied.
Crowley swallowed, trying to keep his cool. There were very few beings which struck real fear into his heart, but this was one of them. “Thanks for dropping in. It’s an…” he swallowed again, “…honor to meet you. Never had the pleasure before.”
“Yes,” Death said thoughtfully. “You avoided me in Chicago.”
“Well, there was an apocalypse on,” Crowley said. “Lots to do.”
“Mmm.” Death studied him, his steady gaze deeply unnerving. “If I’d known what you’d become, I probably would have reaped you myself when you died as Fergus MacLeod. But there really wasn’t any indication.”
Crowley shrugged. “Sort of found my groove after death, I guess you’d say.”
“Hell does seem to have agreed with you.”
Feeling mysteriously emboldened - perhaps it was hysteria - Crowley said, “You’re awfully chatty for a Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. I thought it was meant to be the strong, silent type.”
There was a hint of a smile on Death’s face. “I’m not always as much of a stickler for the rules as I like people to think,” he said. “I’m doing this as a favor to an old friend, but mostly because I thought it would be amusing. Staying quiet and pointing wouldn’t have been as fun. In any case, I think it’s time we move this along.”
He didn’t touch Crowley, but the world turned black.
It stayed black.
Crowley looked around. Except for Death, still standing in front of him, there was absolutely nothing to see.
“What is this?” he asked, hating the slight quaver he couldn’t keep out of his voice.
“Have you ever wondered where demons go when they die?” Death asked. His voice was soft and mild, yet the question struck terror into Crowley’s heart.
“Always figured…oblivion,” Crowley said uncertainly. “Demon is a twisted soul - what’s left when you kill a soul?”
“More than you’d think,” Death said. “But in a way, you’re not far off the mark.” He nodded at the surrounding void. “This is the Empty. Angels and demons come here if they’re killed. You will sleep, and you will dream of your regrets.”
Crowley shuddered. He couldn’t help it. “What do you want from me?” he demanded, voice cracking. He put his hands over his eyes, no longer able to bear the sight of the infinite darkness. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You know the story as well as I do, I’m sure.” Death sounded wryly amused. “So many adaptations. Personally, I’m partial to the one with the Muppets.”
This was such an outrageous claim for this entity in particular to make that Crowley had to look up -
- only to find himself back in his bedroom, alone.
He was sitting up in bed, but under the covers, as though he’d slept.
“Fucking hell,” Crowley whispered. He lunged for his phone on the bedside table and squinted at the display. December 25th. 4 AM.
There was still time.
***
It was 1 PM and everyone who’d been able to attend this year was gathered in the Men of Letters bunker: Sam, Dean, and Jack were there, of course, and so were Castiel, Jody, and Donna.
They’d opened presents and were just finishing eating a huge brunch courtesy of Dean’s cooking (with Donna’s enthusiastic help) when there was a loud banging at the door.
Dean was out of his seat in an instant, gun drawn, Sam right behind him. Dean headed up the stairs to the door; Sam stayed at the bottom, gun in one hand, demon-killing knife in the other. Dean opened the door.
“Happy fucking Christmas,” Crowley said, shoving a large sack into Dean’s chest and breezing past him down the stairs.
“The hell are you doing here?” Dean demanded, clomping after him. “Hey, hey, don’t put your gun away!” This last was directed at Sam, who rolled his eyes.
“Merry Christmas,” Sam said to Crowley, bemused. “What are you doing here?”
“Spreading holiday cheer,” Crowley snapped. “And saving your sorry hides, as usual.”
With a suspicious glare, Dean opened the bag and started rummaging through it. The first thing he pulled out was a bottle of top-shelf whiskey. His face brightened. “Wait, is this for me?” His face immediately darkened again. “What’s the trick?”
“It’s not a trick,” Crowley said. He’d begun chalking a magic circle onto the floor and was about halfway done. “I had some truly awful dreams last night. And you were there,” he straightened up to point at Castiel, who tilted his head in confusion, “and you were there.” He pointed at Donna this time. Her eyes went wide. “And someone else was there too, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I did wake up thinking I’d had a weird dream last night…” Donna said. “But for the life of me I couldn’t remember it.”
Crowley wasn’t done. He pointed at Jody. “You - sorry for the time I nearly killed you.”
Jody gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Roderick!” she whispered. “I knew I knew you from somewhere.” She glared at him. “You know, not only did I almost die on that bathroom floor, but you left me with the check.”
Crowley looked embarrassed. “Utterly classless of me. I truly am sorry.” He went back to drawing the circle.
There was a long silence. “So, were you visited by three ghosts last night, or what?” Dean asked finally.
“I said I didn’t want to talk about it, Squirrel!” Crowley bellowed. He finished the circle and said a few words in Latin. Rowena appeared in the middle of it, dressed in a form-fitting dark green velvet dress.
“Hello, boys,” she purred. She caught sight of Donna and Jody and gave a feral grin. “And ladies! This is a first. What a treat.”
“Crowley, what’s going on?” Sam asked.
“The things in the bag are trinkets,” Crowley said. “This is your real present.”
“Your mother is our Christmas present?” Dean asked dryly.
“My mother, yes. My mother, one of the most powerful and knowledgeable witches to ever walk this planet. My mother, who was just crowned Queen of Hell, and therefore now has all its resources at her disposal.” Crowley snapped his fingers and pointed at Jack. “If she can’t help you save the whippersnapper, I’ll eat my own naughty bits.”
“Why would you say that?” Dean groaned.
“Because it’s true,” Crowley shot back. “And you know how attached I am to them.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t talk about them all the time.”
Sam was looking through the sack now. He pulled out an ancient book on magic and his eyes widened. “How’d you get this? I’ve seen references to it, but even the Men of Letters don’t have a copy.”
“Elves,” Crowley said. “Look, start passing things out, would you? There’s something for everyone. I had a feeling Feathers and those women would be joining you.”
Sam carried the sack into the library and started unloading its contents. Dean and Rowena followed him. Crowley took a deep breath, closing his eyes and sagging against the staircase. Being a decent person was exhausting. He would take a moment to collect himself before joining them. Reluctantly. It wasn’t appealing at all, he told himself; he just didn’t want to end up in the Empty.
“Hello,” said a bright voice. Crowley jumped, his eyes flying open. Jack was standing right in front of him, smiling broadly.
“I just wanted to say merry Christmas,” Jack continued, “and to thank you for what you did for me.”
“It was nothing,” Crowley said. “Just saving my own skin.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Jack replied thoughtfully. “But either way, I appreciate it. It’s the act that’s most important, don’t you think?” His smile, somehow, got wider. “Maybe I could call you Uncle Crowley?”
Before Crowley could tell him ‘absolutely not’ and ‘not in a million years,’ Jack put his arms around him in a hug. Crowley stayed frozen for a second, because he certainly hadn’t seen this coming. Surely Death ought to have warned him about these dire consequences. He should push the lad away.
Instead, Crowley somehow found himself hugging Jack in return. Only for a moment, before he side-stepped neatly away, but still. It made his chest ache strangely.
Jack bestowed one last beaming smile on him before turning to rejoin the others in the library. Crowley followed, deciding he’d explain to the boy later that he was not and would never be ‘Uncle Crowley.’
Yes, he’d get around to that just as quick as could be.