(I sat down today determined to write something for this and this is what came out. It turned out a lot less angsty than I intended but I hope it is enjoyed)
When Crowley knocks at the Motel door he has a quip on the end of his tongue, the King and Master of all Demons, Keeper of the Hellhounds, Gate keeper to Hell. And he is stood in the concrete grave of a parking lot, outside a plywood door waiting for an embossed invitation. Even his long dormant Meat Suit twitches in annoyance.
The door mercifully opens; he opens his mouth to offer his witty rejoinder…
“Atchooo!”
…And is greeted with a sneeze in the face.
His eyes snap shut by instinct but he feels the flecks of spittle sprayed over his face, spattering his cheeks and clinging in his hair.
“Sorry.” A voice mumbles, it doesn’t sound terribly apologetic.
With a snap of his arm Crowley whips out the handkerchief from his suit pocket and gently dabs at his skin, when he is fairly sure he is no danger of snot in the eyes he looks up to see the youngest Winchester staring back at him through bleary eyes.
“Charming.” He mutters, pocketing his handkerchief, “If you wanted to take a rain check you could have called me. What’s the saying? ‘Say it, don’t spray it’”
The hunter gives him what Crowley has learnt is lovingly called ‘Bitch Face’. He means it in no way lovingly, but the name seems to fit. And nods him through.
If the charming greeting wasn’t clue enough, the rainforest of used, germ ridden tissues littering the floor and surfaces would have been a big hint.
“You have to be kidding me.”
Crowley has lived millennia in Hell, and squatted in the most unsavoury of hovels, but even he hesitates before stepping over the threshold. The heat coming from the stuttering room heater is stifling, as soon as the door shuts behind him Crowley misses the breeze, even if it carried the whiff of garbage.
Sam ignores him, as is expected these days. The longer it takes to find a way into Purgatory, namely the longer he is away from his brother, the less and less he talks. Not that Crowley cares overly much, but it isn’t much fun poking a moose that won’t even make a moose sound in response.
“You couldn’t wait 24 hours until we dragged your brother back could you.”
Sam hunches over to the furthest bed, dropping his overly large body onto the edge and leaning lethargically down to pick up a boat that he uses as a boot.
“Sorry if a few germs hurt your delicate sensibilities Crowley.”
Sam’s voice sound raw, like the souls on the rack that have spent months endlessly screaming. Or... Crowley’s eyes divert to the pharmacy hanging out on the kitchenette counter… been up all night coughing.
It takes Crowley a few moments to notice what is going on, it isn’t until Sam stumbles up from where he was tying up his laces and has to use the wall for balance that he catches up.
Crowley stares on disbelievingly “You can’t think we are doing this today?”
“Why not?” Sam rasps, pushing sweaty bangs from his face. His skin is pale, almost grey and Crowley can smell his fever from here.
“Because I like my head attached thank you very much.”
Sam rolls his eyes and rights himself, so now is standing under his own steam, if not totally upright. “I’m fi-“
A coughing fit cuts off that terrific lie. Crowley knows a thing or two about lying, and Sam is one of the most unaccomplished liars in the history of the earth. Even when he spent an entire year in a web of deceits it was only his brothers pig-headedness that gave him the illusion of competence in that arena.
Sam walks; perhaps it would be more suitable to call it a stumble, over to the kitchenette, his hand collapsing down onto a brown bottle of questionable liquid.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
An Unlikely Partnership Part 1
Date: 2012-05-26 07:53 pm (UTC)When Crowley knocks at the Motel door he has a quip on the end of his tongue, the King and Master of all Demons, Keeper of the Hellhounds, Gate keeper to Hell. And he is stood in the concrete grave of a parking lot, outside a plywood door waiting for an embossed invitation. Even his long dormant Meat Suit twitches in annoyance.
The door mercifully opens; he opens his mouth to offer his witty rejoinder…
“Atchooo!”
…And is greeted with a sneeze in the face.
His eyes snap shut by instinct but he feels the flecks of spittle sprayed over his face, spattering his cheeks and clinging in his hair.
“Sorry.” A voice mumbles, it doesn’t sound terribly apologetic.
With a snap of his arm Crowley whips out the handkerchief from his suit pocket and gently dabs at his skin, when he is fairly sure he is no danger of snot in the eyes he looks up to see the youngest Winchester staring back at him through bleary eyes.
“Charming.” He mutters, pocketing his handkerchief, “If you wanted to take a rain check you could have called me. What’s the saying? ‘Say it, don’t spray it’”
The hunter gives him what Crowley has learnt is lovingly called ‘Bitch Face’. He means it in no way lovingly, but the name seems to fit. And nods him through.
If the charming greeting wasn’t clue enough, the rainforest of used, germ ridden tissues littering the floor and surfaces would have been a big hint.
“You have to be kidding me.”
Crowley has lived millennia in Hell, and squatted in the most unsavoury of hovels, but even he hesitates before stepping over the threshold. The heat coming from the stuttering room heater is stifling, as soon as the door shuts behind him Crowley misses the breeze, even if it carried the whiff of garbage.
Sam ignores him, as is expected these days. The longer it takes to find a way into Purgatory, namely the longer he is away from his brother, the less and less he talks. Not that Crowley cares overly much, but it isn’t much fun poking a moose that won’t even make a moose sound in response.
“You couldn’t wait 24 hours until we dragged your brother back could you.”
Sam hunches over to the furthest bed, dropping his overly large body onto the edge and leaning lethargically down to pick up a boat that he uses as a boot.
“Sorry if a few germs hurt your delicate sensibilities Crowley.”
Sam’s voice sound raw, like the souls on the rack that have spent months endlessly screaming. Or... Crowley’s eyes divert to the pharmacy hanging out on the kitchenette counter… been up all night coughing.
It takes Crowley a few moments to notice what is going on, it isn’t until Sam stumbles up from where he was tying up his laces and has to use the wall for balance that he catches up.
Crowley stares on disbelievingly “You can’t think we are doing this today?”
“Why not?” Sam rasps, pushing sweaty bangs from his face. His skin is pale, almost grey and Crowley can smell his fever from here.
“Because I like my head attached thank you very much.”
Sam rolls his eyes and rights himself, so now is standing under his own steam, if not totally upright. “I’m fi-“
A coughing fit cuts off that terrific lie. Crowley knows a thing or two about lying, and Sam is one of the most unaccomplished liars in the history of the earth. Even when he spent an entire year in a web of deceits it was only his brothers pig-headedness that gave him the illusion of competence in that arena.
Sam walks; perhaps it would be more suitable to call it a stumble, over to the kitchenette, his hand collapsing down onto a brown bottle of questionable liquid.