[Dean is asleep. Actually, that's somewhat of an understatement. He's passed out in one corner of a closet he probably doesn't know he's in, a rather interesting lump on his head, slumped, lolling, and otherwise dead to the world.
[Crowley frowns when he wakes up. It's obvious, almost immediately, that something is wrong. This is most definitely not where he'd gone to sleep; not that demon's need to sleep, but Crowley quite enjoys what luxuries he has left. The vision of a certain Winchester passed out in a corner, just adds to his feeling that something is decidedly going on here.
Adding insult to injury: Crowley doesn't like being seen outside of his neatly pressed suits, and here he is in silky black pajama pants and a tee-shirt. Whatever dragged him out of bed is definitely going to suffer.]
What have you pissed off this time, Winchester?
[Crowley is just going to prod the Hunter with one vaguely annoyed toe.]
[Nudge- nudge- Dean mumbles something in his sleep, shifts against the wall, face contorting into something unpleasant when the waking world starts to horn in on his rather pleasant stripper-related dreams. A hard wall against his head, a crick in his neck, a prodding in his side.]
Gentle, sweetheart, I'm not a punching bag...
[A more forceful nudge startles him awake and he jerks back, smacking his head against the wall with a thump. He groans, massages it with one hand, and glares up at the offending nudger.
Is... Crowley wearing a t-shirt?
Wait- Crowley- what the hell- he jerked to his feet.]
What the hell, douchebag? Did you freaking kidnap me? Isn't that a little low?
[Crowley sighs, looking at the man with that perpetual look as if he's always slow to catch up with the party. Admittedly, in this case Dean has a bit of an excuse, but Crowley's already annoyed this time, so it comes even easier than usual. He's been looking around the inside of the room- closet- they've been trapped in while trying to rouse the Hunter, and it looks like some sort of spell. Some sort of witch or pagan god, if he had to take guesses.]
Yes, precisely Winchester. Which is why I locked myself in which you in my bloody night clothes.
[Crowley scowled in decided exasperation as he waited for Dean to put the picture together. But, after a moment he thinks that might take too long.]
We've both been kidnapped, moron. It's some sort of spell... So, I'm going to ask again: what did you piss off this time?
[And why was he getting dragged into it? As much as he'd taken to watching over the pair, he was fairly certain that locked in a closet with Dean was supposed to be Sam's role in all of this. He was supposed to be
( ... )
[Okay, he's still taking a moment to realize Crowley's wearing freaking nightclothes. He eyes the pajama pants with an amused, unimpressed face, and then just decides to move right along and pretend it's not completely and totally weird.
So maybe Crowley didn't lock them together in a closet. That didn't mean he had to be happy about it. At all.]
You're seriously asking me what I pissed off? How the hell should I know? I've got a freaking phone book of pissed off. I piss things off before breakfast.
[Seriously, the list was so phenomenally large, he didn't even know who was on it. And, in typical Winchester fashion, he has to try jerking the door open before he totally believes they're stuck. Tug tug tug, pull pull pull, and absolutely nothing doing. Son of a bitch.]
[Crowley shifts a little under Dean's scrutiny, and he looks decidedly grumpy about the whole thing. As if being locked in a closet with Dean wasn't bad enough- really, there was hardly an armslength between them- doing so in his pajamas was just intolerable.]
I was asking in the recent sense. Witches with the possibility of unhappy siblings you didn't bother to off. Anything like that?
[Crowley turned, looking away from Dean and back to the walls of the compact space they were currently residing in. The demon in question hadn't bothered with the door, figuring that it they'd been thorough enough to make sure he couldn't just teleport to the other side, they weren't going to forget to flip the lock.]
It looks like there's a way to undo the spell.
[It leaned him more toward gods than witches, but either was still on the table. Pagan gods were go caught up in themes and rituals that all you had to do to get out was to find out what sort of nancy jig would stroke their mystic coffers, and there you were. He was hoping it wasn't
( ... )
[If Crowley looked anything other than grumpy about this, he wouldn't really be Crowley. Maybe he could get by with extreme rage, but the good old King of Hell has a tendency to show a little more composure than that. All in all, it just makes Dean want to punch him for being so damn calm right now. He's not going to, though- the only thing worse than standing less than two feet away from him at all times would be standing less than two feet away from him with his entrails spilled all over the floor.]
Do not say the 'W' word. I haven't fucked with any... of them for, like, months now, and I'd like to keep it that way. They're freaking gross.
[Seriously, it's all bodily fluids and eyeballs and teeth. It's skeevy as shit. He kicks the door in frustration, mind going over lists of the possible candidates without pulling forth anything useful. Demons, demons, demons, but if it were a demonic thing, Crowley'd actually be usefulWhich would just make this too damn easy, apparently. Fuck you very much, universe, and the horse you road in
( ... )
Markings on the walls, darling. I just hope I'm reading them wrong.
[Because Hell knows that telling Dean Winchester that they have to make out isn't going to go over particularly well. In all likelihood, he imagines the man will accuse him of making it up, just to get his hands on him or something. Admittedly, maybe if Crowley flashed bedroom eyes and enjoyed seeing him roughed up a little bit less the Hunter wouldn't have quite as much cause.]
On the very short list of positives, I think we're dealing with some sort of pagan god.
[He was hoping that Dean had some sort of weapon stuffed into his clothes, but they probably weren't going to be that lucky. It would also be rather to nice to actually know what they were dealing with, and how to kill it, but he supposed they could work off trial and error. It was Sumerian, so he was guessing it might be Innana, but Crowley wasn't a fan of supposition when it came to these sort of situations.]On the long list of less positives, we get out by snogging for somewhere around seven
( ... )
[Then again, inhuman body, inhuman eyesight. Freaking figures. His hands smack against the wall as he feels his way around- maybe there's a vent, or like an attic entrance, or something. Oh, who's he friggin' kidding? This is a closet. They're locked in a damn closet. He nearly had his eye poked out by a wire coat hanger.
He stopped feeling around and leaned against the door with a sigh. Pagan gods. Awesome. Those were like his second least favorite dicks in the universe. The first being angels. Or, you know, angels who turned into pagan gods. Those were a double whammy.
Give him a second to take that in.]
Wait--
[Seven minutes. Snogging. Each other. In a closet.]
We're paying homage to the god of Seven Minutes in Heaven? Are you fucking kidding me? You're messing with me. Now is seriously not the time or the place, Heff.
[Crowley sighed and gave Dean his best do you really think I'm joking? look. He had a feeling that it was rather muted by the dark. He took a deep breath and settled for explanations, instead. Dean might be the pretty one, but sometimes he wished he was a bit faster on the uptake.]
Most likely to be Inanna, Sumerian goddess of love-but-never-marriage, adultery, and prostitutes. Wears trashy clothes and snatches men from taverns for sexual pleasure -- you know, your sort of woman, I hear.
[He wasn't entirely certain if they were the sacrifices, or if they were stuck here so she could go ravish Dean's little brother unimpeded. It was a rather important detail, but one that was a bit beyond his ability to ascertain from the inside of a bloody cursed closet.]
Except for the part where she kills them, but she was a warrior goddess and that was all the rage back in her day. Point here being, darling, she was playing Seven Minutes in Heaven before fratboys existed.
[Dean caught that look. Okay, yeah, so not joking then. Spell it out for him, Crowley, that's the only way he's going to wrap his head around this.
He tilted his head, drew his lips back in an impressed, interested expression. Huh. Inanna, huh? He could get on board with that. Hell, if he were pagan, he'd probably be her patron saint.
...Except for the killing part. Damn. Always came with a drawback, these pagan bastards.]
Gotta show the woman some respect. She did Ke$ha before Ke$ha was cool.
[Alright, focus.]
So, let me get this straight- the Goddess of Tramp Stamps is just strolling along and merrily decides to lock our asses in a closet? What the hell is the end ga-
[He falters. Shit.]
Sam.
[This suddenly got a lot more serious. But- shit, he really totally didn't want to do this. Are you fucking kidding him?]
You realize I am just, so completely not into dudes, right?
[Crowley rolled his eyes at Dean's off-handed comment about Ke$ha. It's not that he doesn't get the man's references, he just tried not to sink to that level. He watched Dean, one lifted eyebrow as he waited for the hunter to come to the same conclusion that he'd reached a few minutes before.]
Exactly. She wants some quality alone time with your moose, and thought we might get in the way of her hook up.
[He seems utterly unconcerned at Dean's protests about how he's totally completely absolutely not into guys. Really, sometimes he thinks the man protests too much for his unwavering heterosexuality to be taken at face value. He edges closer, shrinking the distance in between their bodies, one hand reaching out and smoothing the wrinkles in the shirt the hunter was wearing.]
That's nice, love. I am.
[His lips curving, wicked and silently saying no, he didn't have the decency to pretend he wasn't going to enjoy this. His eyes raking over Dean's body in the dark-lit closet, somehow still managing to look like he was sizing him
( ... )
[Dean, despite his never ending pride and masculinity, found himself backing up as Crowley advanced. Not that he was scared, thank you very much, just a sort of reflex at being approached like that. He didn't have very far to go, though. A step and a half, and his back hit solid closet wall.
And then there was a hand on his chest, and his head pulled back, cocked to one side, eyes wide.]
Mostly the drunk ones.
[So, the words were witty enough, but his voice betrayed an edge of anxiety, and he wasn't proud to admit that. Sure, he wanted to save Sam, but...
Really, universe? Really? There had to be some kind of line, or maybe a plan B- maybe if he hopped on one foot and sang the national anthem backwards, or swore his firstborn son, or something...?
No?]
Wait- wait just a second, there, cowboy. After we... you know, how am I supposed to kill the bitch?
After we 'you know'? Really, Winchester, we're taking about kissing here, you don't need to act like a blushing Victorian virgin.
[There was a glimmer in his dark eyes that betrayed that he was more than just slightly amused at the situation, not to mention Dean's reactions. Interested in this? Definitely. And without the good grace to pretend elsewise. Another, nicer creature might have backed up, given the Hunter some breathing room, but Crowley somehow seemed to have shifted just slightly closer.]
It's not like one of us has to shag the other into a wall -- assuming I read it right, of course.
[He was teasing, of course, not that this was anywhere close to the time or place. There were a number of useful spells he'd come across in Sumerian; his translation skills were pretty up to par.
He shrugged his shoulders eventually, and heaved a rather exasperated sigh.]
You stab her with a bronze blade coated with the juice of a pomegranate.
[Pomegranates being ancient symbols of both marriage and the underworld, which was her
( ... )
[Dean tried very hard not to acknowledge that glimmer- not to look into those eyes at all, because that was freaking intimate and weird. It was a little difficult not to, though, considering Crowley was right up in his face, eyes (and lips) only a few inches from his own. He craned his neck back, and accomplished absolutely nothing in the gesture. This was not good. If he was going to make out with a dude- not that he ever would, but if he was going to, he could think of about a dozen people that would be higher on his Gay List than a former punk-ass crossroads demon.
He held up a finger.]
There's going to be absolutely no shagging. In fact, no touching of any kind that isn't absolutely necessary. I don't wanna feel you getting all handsy. Hard to resist, I know, but be a classy first date, would you?
[He cleared his throat, darted a tongue over his lips and tried to ignore how dry his mouth suddenly felt.]
Freakin' deserve dinner after this. I'm expecting lobster. The good kind, none of that shitty Red Lobster crap.
Yes, yes, you've gone all shirking violet because you're scared if I touch you, you might like it. Don't worry doll, I'm not that kind of a first date.
[Crowley? Totally unimpressed by the hunter's resistance. In fact, he rather thought it was over-stated, yelled a bit too loud, like he had something to prove. The crossroads demon quite frankly simply couldn't have cared less. He curled fingers in Dean's shirt and looked like he was trying to hold back laughter as Dean went on about lobster, something glinting darkly in his hazel eyes.]
Alright, Winchester. I'll take you out for a lobster dinner. It's a deal.
[And on that no-doubt ominous note, Crowley leaned in and sealed their mouths together before Dean could try and sputter something inevitably graceless in response. Dean Winchester was the only person possessed of failed retorts so bad that half the time Crowley felt embarrassed just for having heard them.]
All in all, just another Tuesday.]
Reply
Adding insult to injury: Crowley doesn't like being seen outside of his neatly pressed suits, and here he is in silky black pajama pants and a tee-shirt. Whatever dragged him out of bed is definitely going to suffer.]
What have you pissed off this time, Winchester?
[Crowley is just going to prod the Hunter with one vaguely annoyed toe.]
Reply
Gentle, sweetheart, I'm not a punching bag...
[A more forceful nudge startles him awake and he jerks back, smacking his head against the wall with a thump. He groans, massages it with one hand, and glares up at the offending nudger.
Is... Crowley wearing a t-shirt?
Wait- Crowley- what the hell- he jerked to his feet.]
What the hell, douchebag? Did you freaking kidnap me? Isn't that a little low?
Reply
Yes, precisely Winchester. Which is why I locked myself in which you in my bloody night clothes.
[Crowley scowled in decided exasperation as he waited for Dean to put the picture together. But, after a moment he thinks that might take too long.]
We've both been kidnapped, moron. It's some sort of spell... So, I'm going to ask again: what did you piss off this time?
[And why was he getting dragged into it? As much as he'd taken to watching over the pair, he was fairly certain that locked in a closet with Dean was supposed to be Sam's role in all of this. He was supposed to be ( ... )
Reply
So maybe Crowley didn't lock them together in a closet. That didn't mean he had to be happy about it. At all.]
You're seriously asking me what I pissed off? How the hell should I know? I've got a freaking phone book of pissed off. I piss things off before breakfast.
[Seriously, the list was so phenomenally large, he didn't even know who was on it. And, in typical Winchester fashion, he has to try jerking the door open before he totally believes they're stuck. Tug tug tug, pull pull pull, and absolutely nothing doing. Son of a bitch.]
Reply
I was asking in the recent sense. Witches with the possibility of unhappy siblings you didn't bother to off. Anything like that?
[Crowley turned, looking away from Dean and back to the walls of the compact space they were currently residing in. The demon in question hadn't bothered with the door, figuring that it they'd been thorough enough to make sure he couldn't just teleport to the other side, they weren't going to forget to flip the lock.]
It looks like there's a way to undo the spell.
[It leaned him more toward gods than witches, but either was still on the table. Pagan gods were go caught up in themes and rituals that all you had to do to get out was to find out what sort of nancy jig would stroke their mystic coffers, and there you were. He was hoping it wasn't ( ... )
Reply
Do not say the 'W' word. I haven't fucked with any... of them for, like, months now, and I'd like to keep it that way. They're freaking gross.
[Seriously, it's all bodily fluids and eyeballs and teeth. It's skeevy as shit. He kicks the door in frustration, mind going over lists of the possible candidates without pulling forth anything useful. Demons, demons, demons, but if it were a demonic thing, Crowley'd actually be usefulWhich would just make this too damn easy, apparently. Fuck you very much, universe, and the horse you road in ( ... )
Reply
[Because Hell knows that telling Dean Winchester that they have to make out isn't going to go over particularly well. In all likelihood, he imagines the man will accuse him of making it up, just to get his hands on him or something. Admittedly, maybe if Crowley flashed bedroom eyes and enjoyed seeing him roughed up a little bit less the Hunter wouldn't have quite as much cause.]
On the very short list of positives, I think we're dealing with some sort of pagan god.
[He was hoping that Dean had some sort of weapon stuffed into his clothes, but they probably weren't going to be that lucky. It would also be rather to nice to actually know what they were dealing with, and how to kill it, but he supposed they could work off trial and error. It was Sumerian, so he was guessing it might be Innana, but Crowley wasn't a fan of supposition when it came to these sort of situations.]On the long list of less positives, we get out by snogging for somewhere around seven ( ... )
Reply
[Then again, inhuman body, inhuman eyesight. Freaking figures. His hands smack against the wall as he feels his way around- maybe there's a vent, or like an attic entrance, or something. Oh, who's he friggin' kidding? This is a closet. They're locked in a damn closet. He nearly had his eye poked out by a wire coat hanger.
He stopped feeling around and leaned against the door with a sigh. Pagan gods. Awesome. Those were like his second least favorite dicks in the universe. The first being angels. Or, you know, angels who turned into pagan gods. Those were a double whammy.
Give him a second to take that in.]
Wait--
[Seven minutes. Snogging. Each other. In a closet.]
We're paying homage to the god of Seven Minutes in Heaven? Are you fucking kidding me? You're messing with me. Now is seriously not the time or the place, Heff.
Reply
Most likely to be Inanna, Sumerian goddess of love-but-never-marriage, adultery, and prostitutes. Wears trashy clothes and snatches men from taverns for sexual pleasure -- you know, your sort of woman, I hear.
[He wasn't entirely certain if they were the sacrifices, or if they were stuck here so she could go ravish Dean's little brother unimpeded. It was a rather important detail, but one that was a bit beyond his ability to ascertain from the inside of a bloody cursed closet.]
Except for the part where she kills them, but she was a warrior goddess and that was all the rage back in her day. Point here being, darling, she was playing Seven Minutes in Heaven before fratboys existed.
Reply
He tilted his head, drew his lips back in an impressed, interested expression. Huh. Inanna, huh? He could get on board with that. Hell, if he were pagan, he'd probably be her patron saint.
...Except for the killing part. Damn. Always came with a drawback, these pagan bastards.]
Gotta show the woman some respect. She did Ke$ha before Ke$ha was cool.
[Alright, focus.]
So, let me get this straight- the Goddess of Tramp Stamps is just strolling along and merrily decides to lock our asses in a closet? What the hell is the end ga-
[He falters. Shit.]
Sam.
[This suddenly got a lot more serious. But- shit, he really totally didn't want to do this. Are you fucking kidding him?]
You realize I am just, so completely not into dudes, right?
Reply
Exactly. She wants some quality alone time with your moose, and thought we might get in the way of her hook up.
[He seems utterly unconcerned at Dean's protests about how he's totally completely absolutely not into guys. Really, sometimes he thinks the man protests too much for his unwavering heterosexuality to be taken at face value. He edges closer, shrinking the distance in between their bodies, one hand reaching out and smoothing the wrinkles in the shirt the hunter was wearing.]
That's nice, love. I am.
[His lips curving, wicked and silently saying no, he didn't have the decency to pretend he wasn't going to enjoy this. His eyes raking over Dean's body in the dark-lit closet, somehow still managing to look like he was sizing him ( ... )
Reply
And then there was a hand on his chest, and his head pulled back, cocked to one side, eyes wide.]
Mostly the drunk ones.
[So, the words were witty enough, but his voice betrayed an edge of anxiety, and he wasn't proud to admit that. Sure, he wanted to save Sam, but...
Really, universe? Really? There had to be some kind of line, or maybe a plan B- maybe if he hopped on one foot and sang the national anthem backwards, or swore his firstborn son, or something...?
No?]
Wait- wait just a second, there, cowboy. After we... you know, how am I supposed to kill the bitch?
Reply
[There was a glimmer in his dark eyes that betrayed that he was more than just slightly amused at the situation, not to mention Dean's reactions. Interested in this? Definitely. And without the good grace to pretend elsewise. Another, nicer creature might have backed up, given the Hunter some breathing room, but Crowley somehow seemed to have shifted just slightly closer.]
It's not like one of us has to shag the other into a wall -- assuming I read it right, of course.
[He was teasing, of course, not that this was anywhere close to the time or place. There were a number of useful spells he'd come across in Sumerian; his translation skills were pretty up to par.
He shrugged his shoulders eventually, and heaved a rather exasperated sigh.]
You stab her with a bronze blade coated with the juice of a pomegranate.
[Pomegranates being ancient symbols of both marriage and the underworld, which was her ( ... )
Reply
He held up a finger.]
There's going to be absolutely no shagging. In fact, no touching of any kind that isn't absolutely necessary. I don't wanna feel you getting all handsy. Hard to resist, I know, but be a classy first date, would you?
[He cleared his throat, darted a tongue over his lips and tried to ignore how dry his mouth suddenly felt.]
Freakin' deserve dinner after this. I'm expecting lobster. The good kind, none of that shitty Red Lobster crap.
[Another ( ... )
Reply
[Crowley? Totally unimpressed by the hunter's resistance. In fact, he rather thought it was over-stated, yelled a bit too loud, like he had something to prove. The crossroads demon quite frankly simply couldn't have cared less. He curled fingers in Dean's shirt and looked like he was trying to hold back laughter as Dean went on about lobster, something glinting darkly in his hazel eyes.]
Alright, Winchester. I'll take you out for a lobster dinner. It's a deal.
[And on that no-doubt ominous note, Crowley leaned in and sealed their mouths together before Dean could try and sputter something inevitably graceless in response. Dean Winchester was the only person possessed of failed retorts so bad that half the time Crowley felt embarrassed just for having heard them.]
Reply
Leave a comment