Dean and Crowley's Big Adventure (4/?)
It's a little sad that "It's only been two months since I last updated!" is a point of pride on this thing.
Earlier bits are all here.
Dean had thought that the oldest spirit in America would have to be somewhere up in New England, in some tourist trap seaside town in Massachusetts, or maybe a lighthouse in Maine. If he thought long enough, he might have managed to conclude that it could be in Virginia, at the Jamestown settlement, which Sam had once dragged him and their dad to when they were kids, some washed out May afternoon in the pouring rain. He didn't expect Crowley to direct them to a mansion outside Oklahoma City. Native spirits were rare, most of the cultures Dean had researched having their own systems for making sure the dead moved on in a timely manner, and for cleansing and taking care of business on those occasions when they couldn't.
The place didn't exactly look like the sort that traded in old Indian artifacts, either. In fact, it more closely resembled --
"Jesus," Dean breathed, peering out through the windshield and rubbing at his eyes. "Is that a fucking castle?"
"It really, really wants to be," Crowley said. "It's amazing what you humans come up with when you've got more money than you know what to do with." He smiled fondly. "Especially when you've sold your soul to get that money in the first place."
Dean bristled. "I'm not going to help you collect some poor bastard's soul."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Crowley said. "He's still got a good four years left. I'm still training up the pup that'll take him down. Named it Fenris."
Dean scowled. He should recognize that name, he knew. Sam would be able to tell him in a moment -- assuming he wasn't sleeping 20 hours a day, again.
"Oh, I know, it's a touch obvious. Guy obsessed with Valhalla, taken out by a giant dog named Fenris. I'm just a sucker for the classics."
"So what's the spirit?" Dean asked, deciding he didn't want to hear any more about Crowley's collection plans.
"Old viking fellow," Crowley said. "Wandered off from a trading vessel somewhere around the eleventh or twelfth century."
"Wandered all the way to Oklahoma," Dean said, disbelief thick in his voice.
"Don't be dense, darling. Our wanna-be-Norse friend bought his remains on the black market. Helmet, a good size chunk of his skull, and a rather fetching axe. You're going to break in, find the remains, and, well, do that thing you do so well with them."
"You want me to salt and burn an ancient viking."
"Well, I meant get thrown into a lot of walls by it, but yes, that would be good, too."
"I am going to kill you," Dean assured Crowley. "Slowly."
"Yes, yes, now run along. Those fallen angels may be closing in on the human tablet as we speak."
Dean tried to rationalize that the angels couldn't possibly be as close as all that. That there couldn't be any sort of base code programming to humans. That even if there were, it'd have to be way too well hidden for demons and angels to find.
But he couldn't risk it. All the other tablets had information on how to eradicate the other creatures. Lock them away so they couldn't come back to Earth. Which, well, locking living people on Earth wouldn't be too bad, but what about all the dead ones? Would the place just end up overrun with restless, angry spirits? And what else could the tablet tell them?
Hell, maybe it could even explain Sam to Dean.
"I'm not doing this for you," Dean said, because he didn't want to just get out and go off a spirit on Crowley's say-so. It was the principle of the thing. "Just so you know."
Crowley gave Dean a bright smile that was somehow even more disturbing than all the other things he'd done on this trip -- aside from maybe the rabbit's foot. "Noted."
Dean gave him a long look. Crowley just kept smiling.
"Too creepy," Dean said, getting out of the car. "Come on."
Crowley's face went picture-of-innocence, all wide-eyed and slightly sad-mouthed. "I can just wait for you, here."
"Absolutely not." Dean smirked. "You're either coming in with me, or you're going in the trunk."
"No," Crowley said. "I don't think I like either of those options."
"And I don't think I'm going to leave you in my car."
"I won't drive it." Crowley held up his hand, three fingers extended. "Scout's honor."
"You were definitely never a boy scout."
"Troop 138. I lead the Weebelos."
Dean stared at him some more. "Out."
"You've got my word, mate!"
"You're evil," Dean said. "Even with a conscience, you might still mess with my radio or something." He gestured with his head. "Out. I run your errand, you tag along where I can keep an eye on you. That's the deal."
The look that spread across Crowley's face reminded Dean so much of the cartoon Grinch plotting against Whoville that Dean actually got the song stuck in his head. "A deal, you say."
"We're not kissing."
"You're no fun at all."
Earlier bits are all here.
Dean had thought that the oldest spirit in America would have to be somewhere up in New England, in some tourist trap seaside town in Massachusetts, or maybe a lighthouse in Maine. If he thought long enough, he might have managed to conclude that it could be in Virginia, at the Jamestown settlement, which Sam had once dragged him and their dad to when they were kids, some washed out May afternoon in the pouring rain. He didn't expect Crowley to direct them to a mansion outside Oklahoma City. Native spirits were rare, most of the cultures Dean had researched having their own systems for making sure the dead moved on in a timely manner, and for cleansing and taking care of business on those occasions when they couldn't.
The place didn't exactly look like the sort that traded in old Indian artifacts, either. In fact, it more closely resembled --
"Jesus," Dean breathed, peering out through the windshield and rubbing at his eyes. "Is that a fucking castle?"
"It really, really wants to be," Crowley said. "It's amazing what you humans come up with when you've got more money than you know what to do with." He smiled fondly. "Especially when you've sold your soul to get that money in the first place."
Dean bristled. "I'm not going to help you collect some poor bastard's soul."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Crowley said. "He's still got a good four years left. I'm still training up the pup that'll take him down. Named it Fenris."
Dean scowled. He should recognize that name, he knew. Sam would be able to tell him in a moment -- assuming he wasn't sleeping 20 hours a day, again.
"Oh, I know, it's a touch obvious. Guy obsessed with Valhalla, taken out by a giant dog named Fenris. I'm just a sucker for the classics."
"So what's the spirit?" Dean asked, deciding he didn't want to hear any more about Crowley's collection plans.
"Old viking fellow," Crowley said. "Wandered off from a trading vessel somewhere around the eleventh or twelfth century."
"Wandered all the way to Oklahoma," Dean said, disbelief thick in his voice.
"Don't be dense, darling. Our wanna-be-Norse friend bought his remains on the black market. Helmet, a good size chunk of his skull, and a rather fetching axe. You're going to break in, find the remains, and, well, do that thing you do so well with them."
"You want me to salt and burn an ancient viking."
"Well, I meant get thrown into a lot of walls by it, but yes, that would be good, too."
"I am going to kill you," Dean assured Crowley. "Slowly."
"Yes, yes, now run along. Those fallen angels may be closing in on the human tablet as we speak."
Dean tried to rationalize that the angels couldn't possibly be as close as all that. That there couldn't be any sort of base code programming to humans. That even if there were, it'd have to be way too well hidden for demons and angels to find.
But he couldn't risk it. All the other tablets had information on how to eradicate the other creatures. Lock them away so they couldn't come back to Earth. Which, well, locking living people on Earth wouldn't be too bad, but what about all the dead ones? Would the place just end up overrun with restless, angry spirits? And what else could the tablet tell them?
Hell, maybe it could even explain Sam to Dean.
"I'm not doing this for you," Dean said, because he didn't want to just get out and go off a spirit on Crowley's say-so. It was the principle of the thing. "Just so you know."
Crowley gave Dean a bright smile that was somehow even more disturbing than all the other things he'd done on this trip -- aside from maybe the rabbit's foot. "Noted."
Dean gave him a long look. Crowley just kept smiling.
"Too creepy," Dean said, getting out of the car. "Come on."
Crowley's face went picture-of-innocence, all wide-eyed and slightly sad-mouthed. "I can just wait for you, here."
"Absolutely not." Dean smirked. "You're either coming in with me, or you're going in the trunk."
"No," Crowley said. "I don't think I like either of those options."
"And I don't think I'm going to leave you in my car."
"I won't drive it." Crowley held up his hand, three fingers extended. "Scout's honor."
"You were definitely never a boy scout."
"Troop 138. I lead the Weebelos."
Dean stared at him some more. "Out."
"You've got my word, mate!"
"You're evil," Dean said. "Even with a conscience, you might still mess with my radio or something." He gestured with his head. "Out. I run your errand, you tag along where I can keep an eye on you. That's the deal."
The look that spread across Crowley's face reminded Dean so much of the cartoon Grinch plotting against Whoville that Dean actually got the song stuck in his head. "A deal, you say."
"We're not kissing."
"You're no fun at all."