Red Smoke Rising

Sam, it seemed, had sprouted feathers while he’d been gone. Moose practically ending up Big Bird, yellow bellied and practically afraid of his own shadow to boot. The Sam he had been would likely have had a shotgun full of rock salt propped up by the door. He’d have taken one look out the peephole and would’ve unloaded it, regardless of how quick the motel manager could get the Sheriff on the phone and have her turning up. ’No, officer, I’ve got no idea what I was shooting at. It wasn’t like there was the former King of Hell standing right there two minutes ago’. Now maybe Sam was cowering behind the door, a gibbering wreck left hollowed by the returned King of Hell who’d turned him into a Winchester shaped meat puppet.

If they had any hope of getting Lucifer back where he belonged – or getting shot of him for good – Sam was gonna have to pull himself together. Dean or that boy of his – or God forbid that grumpy old shit Singer – could hold his hand through it, but one way or another he was gonna have to get over this. Or …

Crowley shuddered at the thought of having to spend the next millennium skulking around places like this, constantly looking over his shoulder, wondering when the next shifty bugger who approached him on the street was gonna turn out to be one of the Lucifer’s loyal – only as far as the next dethroning – rats. They were everywhere. Pestilence ridden, scurrying around in the dark, biting at the unwary if you weren’t careful. It was just about as disgusting as Hell could get these days.

The Winchesters’ motel room wasn’t far above that. Just seeing the place as Sam let the door swing open and then turned away to walk back into his room had him shuddering. Flea-bitten hell hole – almost literally. Crowley squirmed inside his jacket, making a show out of mock shuddering. It wasn’t like his new boujee pad was all luxury … but it wasn’t here.

Knocking the door closed behind him with an elbow, Crowley let out a sigh. He’d anticipated the whining and the crabbing and the cold entrance but in all honestly, this was more pathetic than he’d thought. Top lip curling, Crowley regarded the place before taking an uneasy seat at the table. The chair creaked faintly beneath him (surely it would’ve given way beneath Moose’s more considerable heft) but he didn’t bounce back up. ”Don’t look like you picked up any more positivity while you were playing sock puppet, Mary Poppins,” Crowley crabbed. He clucked his tongue before settling back in the chair to study Sam properly. What he saw was … worrying.

He sighed, planting an elbow on the edge of the table and his chin in the crook of his palm. Sam might be talking a good story with the rest but right now he doubted Moose could go just a single round with Lucifer again. ”A friend can’t come and see how a friend’s doin’? Sam, Sam, Sam … just pull up a pew and get it off your chest. You’ll feel better fer it. Ain’t that what they always say? Come tell the good doctor all about it.” He probably shouldn’t have been trusting the table but he stretched out his hand and patted it all the same. They weren’t gonna get anywhere with shoving Lucifer back in his cell if the next strong breeze would send them all arse over tit.

Tagged: SAM WINCHESTER * Word Count: 587

His ability to see the big picture, to predict the shit that was gonna roll downhill towards hell, was what had made him a half decent King. Lucifer and his lap dog might’ve spent millennia ruling with violence, stamping out any idiot who happened to stick his nose up too far, like a demon form of whack-a-mole, only the hole they disappeared down led straight to the Empty and most of the time there was no way back from there. Which meant avoiding it was the wisest move for a rat of a King who was trying to flee the sinking ship before it entirely went under.

Apparently he’d been a little too successful at it and now the Winchesters were sulking. Crowley hissed out a sigh, considered flopping on the bed dramatically, but he was likely to get back up with fleas. The chair was back enough. Its break was enough to have his lip curling. He rearranged his coat around his knees, looking up at Moose with that little smile playing around his lips. Sam might as well get it all off that muscle-bound chest.

Hazel eyes stayed on Moose’s hands as he got himself out a beer – shocker. They trailed up slowly, meeting Sam’s eye as he leaned back against the kitchen counter. Crowley flicked a finger at the fridge, tilted his head. ”Not even gonna offer? Where’s all that famous Winchester hospitality gone?” At the rate it went down their necks, especially Dean’s, probably straight through ‘em.

Untended by his host, Crowley slumped back with a sigh. Maybe it was a warmer welcome than he had been expecting, but still, there weren’t an awful lot of gratitude coming his way for what he’d done in all of this. ”Considering I had you on my arse with daddy using you as a sock puppet, no, no Sam, I’m not Little Miss Sunshine these days.” Something they had in common. It was no more fun being on the receiving end of all that controlling power as it was being the thing spinning all that power around – albeit unwillingly. Although, maybe there was some part of Sam that’d enjoyed the chance of paying him back a bit. Get your frustrations out and blame it on the devil in your head afterwards. Win-win.

Pouting, Crowley crossed his arms over his chest. Had coming here even been worth it? Not yet, but what else was he gonna do to finally shove the genie back in the bottle, so to speak? He pouted faintly, watching Sam fuss with a book. More often than not he was surrounded by stacks of them while Dean bitched about having to read for a living.

Crowley swivelled in his seat as Sam settled down. Of course, his seat wasn’t sounding like it was gonna snap into matchsticks beneath that hulk. He planted his elbows on the table, leaning in to narrow his eyes at Sam. ”And what exactly was it that you were doing, dear Moose? I heard you went runnin’ from your brother even before you had Lucifer slitherin’ into your noggin, with your full permission. Poor Dean, all on his own, tryin’ to get you back. No wonder it took so long.” Now that was a jab straight into the joint Winchester sore spot, but it wasn’t like Sam hadn’t done it first.

Tagged: SAM WINCHESTER * Word Count: 559

There probably weren’t many who’d call anything that crawled out of the pits of hell a necessary evil, but you know, that was exactly what he was. The Winchesters came calling when they wanted something, made their little deals, got exactly what they wanted – alright, sometimes with a bit of a caveat that he’d slipped in there – and then strolled away with the name Crowley in their mouths like a bad taste. It was, well, downright rude.

That was the Winchesters all over though, wasn’t it? Crowley clucked his tongue, his hand darting to his chest like he was trying to staunch a wound. Knowing Squirrel and Moose they’d probably just stand over him and watch his meat suit bleed out rather than pop a paw to help. ”And that, right there, is exactly why you can count all of them on one hand,” he crabbed. ”One of these days the pair of you are gonna have to open those hearts up again. It’ll be like trying to crack a Brazil nut at Christmas with both hands tied behind your backs … but it will happen.” Just not for him, especially since while his behind had been tucked neatly under the rock he’d found for himself here in town, theirs had been hanging out to get kicked by Hell.

Word on the street was that Singer was pretty much the only one that had come out of this with any sort of win. Somehow, in all of this, he’d come crawling out of Heaven and back down here. Not exactly a wise move in anybody’s book, but he’d done it, just in time to see Sam help spring open the cage in hell, Ben almost die for a second time and Dean tying himself up into enough knots that it was a wonder he could walk, let alone charge out there to go looking for a way to get Sam back. Moose knew it too.

Like he was a priest perched in a confessional – that would’ve been preferable to this place at least – Crowley drank in what Sam began to spout. It was usually took an Everest sized emotional enema to get either one of them actually talking about feelings, although once the two of them got started it could be an eternity before they finally ran out of steam.

At some point during the story about watching for signs of ending up a sock puppet again and feeling like a little pride in having prevented Lucifer from popping himself into someone else instead Crowley got up and got a beer from the fridge. A second sometime around Sam telling him how he’d been doing everything he could in his limited power to steer Lucifer when he was actually ‘awake’ enough in his head. ”Good luck with that one,” Crowley muttered, knuckling the foam of the cheap beer away from his lips. He knew how his kind worked, even when they were as big as Lucifer or his pale peepered boot lickers. Games, it was all games. You let the things around you, in you, believe that they were getting their freedom, that they had some measure of control and in the end… they’d learn the truth.

When Sam went on to talk about slipping, Crowley smacked his lips, looking down at the bottle in his hand dubiously. It’d been sealed, no coppery stink rolling off of it when it had been opened. He doubted Sam would’ve been stupid enough to keep any demon blood hanging around the room, especially since he should’ve been on the wagon. ”You’re not still gettin’ your kicks, are ya?” Another frown at the bottle and Crowley was knocking it back anyway. It was just a human crutch but it felt like he’d need it to get through this.

Sam’s guilt filled the room like cheap perfume. Almost choking him. Crowley slumped back, watching the giant with slitted eyes. Crowley made a slow sound of warning as Sam’s mind started skittering down tracks that were only gonna lead to trouble. ”Don’t you go rushing back on that diet, Moose. It’s not gonna get you half as far as you think it is. You honestly think Squirrel’s gonna start trustin’ you any time soon if you do?” He gestured with the bottle like he was offering up a warning with it. The Winchesters had never reacted to that sort of wild card shit well and the rest of them were gonna be on the edge with Sam already. It was a wonder he’d been left alone even this long.

The fact that Sam still wanted to stretch the leash and start back after the big wigs again might’ve sounded impressive, but it was also a quick road right back to where he’d been. All of this … torrent … from Sam’s head and straight into his lap was touching, but now there were more bloody questions and a sense of responsibility sitting on his shoulders. He hated the weight, had done since his own worthless whelp had been clinging on. Crowley sighed, draining the last of the beer before he got up for another. ”So … “ he drawled, as he sashayed over to the fridge. ”What do you wanna do to start shutting the cell door with his arse behind it again? What’s the plan Gigantor?” Up close, the fresh bottle in his hand, Crowley winged his brows at Sam, like suddenly he’d see the cogs start to whir behind those green eyes.

Tagged: SAM WINCHESTER * Word Count: 918

Saints didn’t end up in Hell. Demonkind weren’t exactly known for following the rules, but some things were stitched into the fabric of the universe and well-behaved little boys and girls not going to roast in the bowels of Hell for an eternity was one of them. You had to sign your soul away and even if all he’d done was let things out a little when he’d eventually signed up for his timeshare in the seventh circle, Crowley had done enough since to make it clear that his arse would never have gone fluttering upstairs.

Blood stained his hands, coats of it laid on since he’d taken the big chair. Sam knew it, Dean knew it. They’d seen it happen and had felt the prick of betrayal when he’d turned his back on them just as he did everybody else. He was only out for number one and right now keeping number one safe was just as important as keeping the Winchesters safe. Could he promise not to twist things up later? Never. Was he going to promise to stick with this now and play nice for as long as it worked for him? Absolutely.

Crowley smiled sweetly, wagging his hand back and forth in the air, like maybe he had, maybe he hadn’t. ”And how many did you bump off, huh?” he tossed back. Sam and Dean had played slaughter the demons a time or two, but Sam, now, that boy had gone killing his own too - for their own good, supposedly, but he’d still done it. Were memories of the next generation of kids just like him plaguing his dreams at night? That was another sure bet and he was willing to lay money on the fact that Dean knew it too.

He was tempted to get up and take another look in that fridge, or in the trash. The Winchesters’ misery could usually be measured in empties. Stack them up high enough and you could guarantee they were at their absolute lowest, but even then the booze soaked conversations would be stilted, constipated. The blood Sam had been swigging wouldn’t have loosened his lips anymore, but it certainly would’ve livened things up. Crowley laughed lightly, the sound low and rough. ”Who needs a little demon blood chaser when you’re all juiced up by the man himself. What are you gonna do now you’re not got that sort of battery?” That was a question probably plaguing Sam’s brain. Without Lucifer’s presence he was going to be weak again. Undoubtedly Singer already had his little basement fun room set up, just for that eventuality.

Catching Sam’s eyes lingering on his throat, Crowley grunted. ”Oi, eyes off.” One wrong move and he was gonna swing, he was not Squirrel’s own personal juice box. Like a disgruntled chicken, he flapped his coat around himself, pulling it close before he reached for his beer again. He dropped the warning into Sam’s lap, and not just because that diet could quite easily start with him as the gateway demon. ”You say that now.” It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened after all. The demon’s face screwed up, the bottle and one index finger aimed squarely in Sam’s direction. ”You think he isn’t comin’ up with all of them himself? He might tell you he’s trusting you…” And now he was planting doubts in Sam’s mind. This wasn’t going exactly the way he expected.

Sighing heavily, Crowley pressed the bottle against his forehead and murmured a request for patience. He added a little request - probably audibly - for some intelligence for the Winchesters too. Dean had never had much, but Sam was meant to be the brains in this operation. Dropping the bottle Crowley stared at Sam like he’d lost his mind - which he obviously bloody had. For a minute it was just that dumb struck look, but then he was cackling until he had tearsin his eyes. ”Teamwork you might get, but I think you’ll be dust before anyone works out a way to get rid of him. They’ve spent millennia trying to do away with him. That Yellow Eyed crackpot you might have a chance with. You got him once, you get yourself something like the Colt and you might have a chance again. You … don’t have anythin’ like it, do ya?” Suddenly suspicion cracked through his hazel eyes. Who knew what the Winchesters had picked up while they were trying to deal with their boss level demon problem.

Tagged: SAM WINCHESTER * Word Count: 788

There was that old chestnut again. ‘What I thought necessary at the time’. Crowley could imagine it crooned in Rowena’s harpy shrill tones, excusing herself of what she’d brought about, just because she’d wanted to protect him from the beady eyes of the Winchesters. Somehow, in that woman’s empty bloody head, Lucifer and his walking band of loyal (if you could call being turned into a mindless sheep by fear loyal) demons raising merry Hell on Earth was somehow better than the Winchesters gunning for him at some unknown, and probably very distant, point in the future. The Winchesters were always gonna have bigger problems than him and while he might prove just a little bit useful, they’d keep him around.

Crowley cackled, shaking his head up at Sam. Always painting it in those tones that it was necessary and somehow forgivable because of it. ”Pretty sure you’re the only one who thought it was.” Carrying on arguing over it was just splitting some of those quaffed hairs on Sam’s head. The Yellow Eyed demon’s special kiddies had been slaughtered, Sam had strolled into the cage - doing what was necessary - and a lot of folks had snivelled about it. In the end they’d all been brought back by a snap of some powerful warlock fingers and they’d gone from wiping their eyes to being loomed over by the shadow of the big bad Lucifer himself. They just needed to open their bloody eyes to see him.

He'd done just that and he’d been wise enough to bolt, staying just a step ahead of Lucifer maybe, but ahead none the less. Crowley’s expression pursed, the laughter easing away until he had to force the corners of his puckered lips to lift. ”He wasn’t grubbing around for me already? You’re disappointing me, Moose, I thought I was public enemy number 1. He wouldn’t have got any of those leads off of you?” He winged a sketchy brow, just waiting for Sam to flip his story from ‘I was stopping him this whole time’ to ‘well, I didn’t mean it, but…’ There was always gonna be some excuse there somewhere, one Sam could feel guilty about afterwards.

Outwardly he remained unfussed, but Crowley still shifted in his seat, rearranging his coat almost languidly. It was Sam’s fault the itch had started up between his shoulder blades, as if the eye of Sauron had suddenly fixed on him. Maybe it was Sam’s eye, trying to size him up for just how much blood he could drain out of pocket sized guest (it was quality over quantity, thank you very much). Crowley narrowed his eyes at Sam, meeting that glare with obvious distrust. ”Pretty sure someone’s heard that from you before, sonny boy. I’m not your walking, talking juice box for when you want a little energy before the next game.” There were plenty of demons still scurrying about in town if he was in a bond – which, undoubtedly, he would be at some point soon.

That sneaky beggar. Crowley looked at Sam like a whipped puppy as he crossed to the door and flipped back the rug to go undoing a devil’s trap.

The demon pointed a finger at him for a moment before he hissed out a sigh. Wasn’t even worth calling him every name under the sun for it, the Winchesters were always gonna be sneaky, and they were always gonna fail until right at the very end, when everything always seemed to come right for them. Crowley muttered under his breath, setting his bottle down on the table to lean in on his side. ”I don’t think I’m wrong here. I think you’re a little delusional. Years? Ha!” Another cackle that had the lights overhead flickering. ”You ain’t learned by now that what Heaven thinks they’re up to ain’t half as real as it seems? What sort of ace do they think they’ve got in the hole this time? A gun, a knife … a couple of harsh words for the Winchesters to throw at him?” His throat had gone dry at the idea though. Heaven had always been sneaky, scheming, feathered arseholes acting like they were holier than thou. Maybe they believed throwing a bucket of that sanctimonious attitude at him would work. Crowley lifted the bottle he held though, taking a long gulp as something like the candle flame feeling of hope rose up in his throat.

Tagged: SAM WINCHESTER * Word Count: 740

Rage at the Winchesters’ screw up had filled the hovel he’d retreated to – high hopes in Squirrel and Moose had left him on the back foot when they’d failed him and let the one boot that could stomp him out escape from the cage – half destroying the place and leaving more than one demon heading for the Empty before he was done. Admittedly, he probably should’ve got a handle on it earlier, it wasn’t like he could afford to lose too many of them, but between Rowena’s knife in his back and these two idiots not having the sense to avoid doing exactly what that Yellow Eyed son of a bitch had wanted them to do, being the bigger man had been impossible.

Crowley let out a long breath and mimed getting a scroll out of his pocket, unrolling it at least a yard long before he stared at Sam through the space it would’ve occupied. He’d done his usual and had bolted from his family to hide that supposedly rank little part of him. ”You let him lead you down there. You haven’t learned by now not to let him goad you into anything?” A laugh cracked out, brief and sharp, as Sam threw his nephew under the bus. Unlike his uncle, Ben apparently hadn’t caved. He’d have been standing down there, refusing to his very last breath, which, thanks to Sam, hadn’t taken them very long to gasp. The laugh had vanished fast, replaced by a sigh as Sam, clinging onto his stubbornness in that rock head of his, proved that not a single lesson had been learned by this. Crowley muttered a curse, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling for a moment. He’d have asked God to give him strength but that boat had long since sailed – not that he’d ever had much belief in anything beyond himself.

Not even Lucifer himself. Rowena had guaranteed that long before she’d started giggling like a school girl after the big man himself, boiling trust or faith out of him until the only thing left was that overriding sense of selfishness. That’d kept his head under a rock long after Lucifer had come strolling out of Hell – and had failed to find him. Hearing that he hadn’t been actively looking for him left him pouting. ”It got me far enough before that rotten bitch who … Rowena … decided to get you two off my back before you stuck a knife in it. Without her I’d have had my backside planted there another century or two before someone tried to knock me off of it.” There was some pride in the fact that Sam laughed and nudged him into the number 2 spot on Hell’s wall of problems to get rid of. Hazel eyes narrowed at Sam as he started to quibble over who had the biggest perks for the demons. ”The Earth until he wipes them out like everything else? He ain’t Father Bloody Christmas. If they think he is then they’re better off dead once and for all.” Blowing a violent pfffft, Crowley waved off the idea that he’d left the Winchesters to the clean up.

It wasn’t like there’d ever been much loyalty between any of them and Rowena had known it. The Winchesters might’ve acted like they were above it all, but they were just as willing to toss him under the bus as he would’ve been them. ”Well, call me touched,” Crowley offered, pressing a hand to his chest, like it would’ve touched whatever blackened lump of coal sat in his chest in substitute of a heart. Lucifer would’ve pushed too. Sam Winchester was a nut for him to crack, the meat inside a tasty little morsel. He might’ve liked to think he was a hard nut, but they all cracked in the end.

Crowley watched the giant warily, hazel eyes slitted, distrust setting his mouth in a wry line again. The demon blood he’d been necking gaze Sam a bit of an advantage, although probably not half as much as he believed it did. His brows hitched, a snort rolling through his nose. ”You’d be slitting my throat and having yourself a pint or two?” he suggested. Like Sam would’ve been that messy with it here, when Dean could stroll back in at any minute. He’d have been scurrying away to the warehouses and other dark corners of this town, going full rat as he tried to track down the black eyed waifs and strays here. At the demonstration of his lack of welcome again, Crowley wriggled down in his seat, making himself at home. He tilted his head, pooched out his lips. ”We’ll wait and see, ‘ey?” He imagined that Squirrel and that old fool Singer were doing exactly the same, knowing Sam would crack again one day.

The reveal of the demon trap had left him cursing. Crowley puffed out a breath, fiddling with the bottle as he set it down. Years ago he’d had the upper hand on everything, now getting Sam locked up with a little ruse was only gonna get him deeper in the proverbial. ”We all learn eventually, hmm.” He smiled at the suggestion that Sam should too. ”You think that’s gonna bother him? He’s got every soul in Hell to throw at you now and all he’ll do is stand there watching ‘til you crack eventually.” Expendable they were, but Lucifer wasn’t half as wild as they made out. He was a planner and he’d had plenty of years in the cage to work out his game a thousand moves ahead of anybody else’s.

That didn’t mean that the Winchesters weren’t scrambling to keep up, but they weren’t the geniuses they liked to make themselves out to be. Sam waded into he middle of it, ignoring his laughter and the flicker of the lights to show off just how many aces he had in his hole. ”And you’ve got yourself one that you didn’t bother using the last time?” Crowley scoffed. He laughed harder, mock wiping tears from his eyes as he shook his head.

Sam settled opposite him at the table, immediately cutting the angels out of the deal. ”So you cut the lot of ‘em out and go it alone. Didn’t we just establish how bad an idea that is, Moose?” Interest cut keen in the pit of his stomach as Sam started to elaborate though. ”You lost one of the biggest weapons on the board?” Crowley scoffed. He leaned across the table, tangling fingers in Sam’s shirt to haul him in. ”You just misplaced it? Do you know what damage something like that could do?” Of course he did, and that was why Sam had hidden in the first place. Had Squirrel or Singer taken it for his good? The wheels immediately started spinning in his head, looking for some way through the maze to close in on it.

Tagged: SAM WINCHESTER * Word Count: 1156