hearts are made of broken glass--chapter two (Cas/Crow, Supernatural, PG-13
Title: Hearts Are Made Of Broken Glass
Chapter: 2/?? (updating every Monday)
Author: pink_bagels
Genre: humour, drama
Pairing(s): Castiel/Crowley (eventually...kind of...), Dean/Crowley (eventually...kind of? o.O)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2660
Disclaimer: You kidding? I own nothing.
Warnings: Some spoilers for the seventh season and some deviation from canon at the end of the sixth.
Summary: Hell is no place for a brooding, guilty angel. So, Crowley sends Castiel on a crossroads mission. Big mistake.
hearts are made of broken glass--chapter two
Seventeenth century Scotland was, as he had expected--damp, dirty and full of clouded misery. Castiel checked his watch as he waited at the crossroads, knowing he was well behind schedule. Crowley had left him several texts demanding to know how he was getting on, and Castiel purposefully refused to answer them. It had been a ridiculous suggestion to make an angel work as a crossroads demon, let him deal with the usual efficient, celestial silence.
As suspected, there was an alehouse not far from where Castiel was standing, and from the sounds of revelry and cursing the hour was late and the fermented joy was flowing freely. He checked his watch again, impatient for this moment to simply pass. He had a lot of suffering backed up for himself, and this distraction had proved to be too interesting for him to properly focus on his misery. After the Bay City Roller roadie, he had finished up the other two in quick succession, with one young woman of Eastern European extraction wanting to be a cheerful nihilist (he wasn't quite sure he had accomplished this, but she seemed to be insufferably happy with the outcome), and a British musician who wanted the lyrics to the song that would make him a legend. Castiel had informed him that he wasn't terribly good with human poetry, and the musician had hung his head and walked away, muttering "Heaven knows, I'm miserable now."
He was now facing his last, and most important, assignment, and one that was strangely personal on Crowley's part. Though it was common knowledge what Crowley had sold his soul for, the circumstances remained murky even in the instructions Crowley had detailed out for him. 'Meet my handsome, refined, original self at a crossroads near Aberlour, in the northern tip of Scotland. It's a lovely place. Be sure to have a biscuit.' No mention at all of how Castiel was to accomplish extending Crowley's below the belt request by three inches, or the more reasonable question, which was 'Why would a rather smart creature such as Crowley make such a stupid demand?"
It seemed he was about to get his answer. A familiar figure weaved back and forth on the road, falling at intervals into the ditch, and picking himself up again as he managed to stagger towards the intersection. He sang a bawdy tune, rife with lyrics full of cursing. He was quite a mess, Castiel thought with distaste. Fergus McLeod sported a nasty black eye, a torn jacket and an overall scent that suggested he hadn't properly washed since the day he'd been born. He gave Castiel a crooked smile, a jug of ale sloshed at his lips as he spoke. His human form was missing two back teeth.
"Hello, kind stranger," Fergus said, by way of introduction. "Welcome, my lovely, to my little village. Sorry...no...welcome to my little village, my lovely..That's not right. Welcome little me lovely you village." He sighed, and rolled his eyes. "Oh hell, feck off."
He staggered past Castiel, and was stopped in mid stride by a couple of drunken locals, who each pitched a rock at him. "Go home, Fergus, you bastard lush ye!" one burly man shouted. "And pay up yer tab by tomorrow's eve, or you'll be getting a real proper beating next time, you drunken ale thief!"
The continued onward, leaving Fergus and Castiel alone at the crossroads. Mist curled between them muffling Fergus's cursing tune into uneven mumbling.
Castiel cocked his head to one side, confused. "Aren't you going to ask anything of me?"
Fergus drunkenly turned around, his eyes forcing Castiel into focus. He stood there for a few moments, taking every nuance of the stranger in, and seeming to suddenly realise what Castiel was really there for. "Yes," he said, narrowing his gaze.
Castiel readied himself for the request, preparing his mouth for the usual invasion after the terms had been dilineated. He was looking forward to getting this over with and ripping apart all the comforts Crowley no doubt had polluted his dank cell with. The plasma TV had proven rather useful, however, for going over replays of his relationship with the Winchesters, especially his moments with Dean, and the special bond they shared--which of course, he had irredeemably shattered. Such inspections left his being in tatters, his grief overwhelming and spilling out in acid tears that burned through the stones of Crowley's dungeon floor.
Yes, best to get back to despair.
"Who is your tailor?"
Castiel stared blankly at Fergus. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your tailor," Fergus said, and he was bold enough to actually touch the lapels of Castiel's trenchcoat, his fingers testing the stitching. "Bonnie bit of material, that. Lovely work. I like the cut of your jib, mate. That's real quality, there."
"Are you sure that's all you wanted to ask of me?"
Fergus paused in his inspection of Castiel's trenchcoat, his dark eyes locking onto the angel's blue depths with a strange, eager intensity. "Depends on what you are offering."
"Anything you desire," Castiel said, shrugging. He tried to back away from Fergus's grip on the lapels of his coat, but the Scottish tailor seemed oddly addicted to getting into Castiel's personal space, a point driven further as he leaned forward, forcing Castiel against the trunk of a nearby tree.
"Most men are fond of hens, but myself..." Fergus gave him a sleepy smile. "I'm partial to a nice, big, cock."
"I don't understand," Castiel said, frowning at the way Fergus pressed against him. "You want me to give you a chicken?"
"What I want from you," Fergus seductively whispered in his ear, "is three inches more than the usual."
"You will have to kiss me, first."
Fergus pressed his forehead against Castiel's, a strangely intimate gesture, the angel thought, especially with the way Fergus' fingers brushed, ever so lightly against the curve in his vessel's neck. Fergus, unlike the rest of the deals that had transpired that day, had no qualms at all about locking lips with an otherworldly being. He pressed them against Castiel's, a fiery hunger diving against Castiel's tongue that lingered far longer than the angel was anticipating. In fact, it was actually rather nice, if he cared to admit it, and he found himself sinking, just a little, into the deft skill of Fergus's mouth. How very strange...He would need to discuss this at length with Crowley later...He found himself reluctant to allow the embrace to end.
"That was not unpleasant," Castiel said, genuinely surprised.
Fergus gave him a small smile. And then, because this was a demonic meeting, and consequence demanded the act be ruined in some fashion, Fergus bent double and vomited into a puddle. This wasn't enough humiliation, however, because Fergus in his current state had no choice but to pass out in his sick and the muck, all pride utterly decimated. It was no wonder Crowley wanted to keep this quiet. In this deal, like many car accidents, disastrous oil spills and unwanted pregnancies, alcohol was an unfortunate deciding factor.
Fergus's fall had left a splatter of sick on the hem of Castiel's trenchcoat.
"Lovely," Castiel dourly observed.
///
He flew them both to the small, peatmoss roofed shack not far from the crossroads, with a stinking Fergus held aloft in his grip. A snap of his fingers cleaned the unfortunate human being up, though it did nothing to sober him. The deal had been sealed as per the usual terms, and yet Fergus seemed insistent on re-enacting the details, seeking out Castiel's lips with pleading desperation. Though the initial seal for the contract was, indeed, exceptional, the subsequent requests were nagging and needy, not to mention wholly unnecessary. Castiel shoved him off, and tossed him onto the stack of wool and straw that he assumed was the man's bed. Much to Castiel's chagrin, Fergus considered this a prelude to an amorous encounter, and drunkenly tried to paw his way into Castiel's favour.
"I like a man who takes control."
"I would prefer if you were unconscious."
Fergus frowned at this. "Can't see how that would be much fun." Then, as though the disturbing thoughts that followed somewhat sobered him, Fergus sat up on the edge of his makeshift bed, his mood significantly more cautious. His eyes were hooded in darkness, shadows playing on every worried crevice of his features. "You aren't with the Bishop, are you?" He whispered this, as though it could be considered sacrilige to even speak of it. "The Inquisitioner?"
"That is not my purpose."
Fergus breathed a sigh of relief, his sudden smile dispelling all darkness that had briefly overtaken him. "Oh, good." He reached for his jug of ale, and thought the better of it, placing it back onto the floor and shoving it to the foot of his bed. "Seeing as how you are my guest, it would be only right for me to offer you tea. You must be famished, traveller. My home is humble, but I'm sure I can scrounge up something."
Castiel gave the interiour a careful study, and was greeted with layers of neatly folded wools, carefully placed scraps and well organized sewing equipement on the far right of the tiny house, while the fireplace burned brightly within the side wall, a couple of cast iron cooking pots resting suitably beside it. Though it was only one room, the house gave off a sense of restraint and tidy respectability. Highly incongruous to the figure he had met at the crossroads, and yet strangely similar to the demon Fergus was set to become.
"You live alone," Castiel stated.
Fergus gave him a derisive snort. "I'm all the better for it. Had a wife, had a son. Neither of them remain."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"What loss? She ran off with the vicar and took the brat with her. The only time I ever saw him was when he requested I give him permission to join the church, one thing I damned bloody well wasn't going to do." He glanced at his front door, as though mindful that someone might be listening in. "Here, you seem an intelligent sort. I got something to show you."
He worked in stealth as he approached his fireplace, the flames lighting up his profile in eerie shadows. Some attempt at black magic was about to commence, Castiel thought with distaste. Yes, the demon in him was definitely showing through.
Fergus loosed a stone in his fireplace, revealing a small crevice within it. He pulled out a small booklet, the cover bound in elegant, etched leather. He didn't give it to Castiel, but bid him to take a look at it, the printed words too precious to leave his own hands. "I could be hung, or worse, for having this," he admitted. "If the Bishop only knew...Ignorant bastard, that he is, he would have me drawn and quartered on the spot."
Castiel read the title, a sense of profound confusion overtaking him. "This is not a text of the black arts," he said. "This is merely human in construction."
"Is it? I wouldn't know, I can't read a word of Italian." He pointed, eagerly, to one word that was repeated over and over. "Except for this one. Simplicio. It means simpleton. This fellow who wrote this, I was told he's referring to the church. Bloody brilliant. This thing near cost me everything I earned the past year, but it was worth it. See? Simplicio, simplicio, simplicio..." He frowned over the cryptic illustrations. "I got no clue what these are. Some sort of spell, I suppose."
"They are inked renditions of planets," Castiel informed him. "It is merely outlining a scientific theory. That the sun remains static, while the rest of the planets, including Earth, revolve around it."
Fergus scoffed at this. "Earth revolving around the sun. How ridiculous."
"The theory is correct."
Fergus faltered slightly at this, only to openly laugh. "You are very funny, you had me going there for a minute." He glanced back at the small book, and shyly closed it shut, wrapping the leather binding around it carefully. "I guess you can tell by now, I'm no fan of the church. Silly, really, spending all that money on something just for one word." His hands caressed the binding, and he looked, to Castiel, so strangely vulnerable and small in his small house, with his small amount of rebellion so secretively tucked away. "I was raised in the church, you see. The Bishop, he was forever reminding me that he had plucked me out of a Glasgow dung heap."
Curiousity got the best of Castiel. "This Bishop you speak of. He was as a father to you."
Fergus darkened at this. He quickly returned his precious book to its hiding place, the stone shoved in with more force than was necessary. "He's a powerful man, and powerful men do whatever the hell they want, to whoever the hell they want. They're monsters, the lot of them." Fergus's inner fury began to rise, his voice shouting into the still quiet of his home. " If I had my way, I'd make every one of those bastards suffer in the most unimaginable ways! Flayings and whippings, none of those are enough--Torment, real torment, that's what they'd get from me!"
Beads of sweat had formed on Fergus's brow. He forced himself to regain his polite composure, and turned back to Castiel, apologetic. "I'm sorry. I guess you should have been warned about my views on the matter, and I don't mean to offend. And don't go thinking you can go into town and start spitting off what I've told you to get me in trouble. I never did mention his Bastard Highness's name, now did I?"
"I take no offense," Castiel said, honest. He cocked his head to one side, studying the human being seated before the fire. "It's strange for me to say so, but I rather like you, Fergus McLeod. It's a shame you will not remain this way."
Fergus shrugged at this, not understanding. The mood between them lightened with Castiel's confession, and Fergus grabbed a basket off of his windowsill and offered it to Castiel. "Biscuit?" he said.
There was no time to react. Like a sudden gust of wind, the front door to his small cottage burst open, and two large, official looking men stormed in, brandishing swords, their blades drawn on either side of Fergus's neck.
"Fergus McLeod," one of them boomed into the small space. "You are charged with witchcraft, consorting with devils and being an unrepentant sodomite..."
"I know, I know, my prowess has preceded me, but this really is a bad time." Fergus stood up, the blades of the swords nicking his flesh. He gave his captors a flirting wink and nodded at Castiel. "I've already got company."
But his bravado was quickly deflated. Between the two goons, entered a tall, thin figure wearing a red robe. He cast an ominous, evil shadow over Fergus and Castiel, and though the man was clearly human, the angel had to admit there was a definite darkness about him, a viciousness that felt animalistic. Raw.
"I should have left you wallowing in shit," the Bishop said, shaking his head at his fallen protege. "I give you one simple thing to do and you screw it up. You are going to pay for this. With every bone in your pathetic body."
Chapter: 2/?? (updating every Monday)
Author: pink_bagels
Genre: humour, drama
Pairing(s): Castiel/Crowley (eventually...kind of...), Dean/Crowley (eventually...kind of? o.O)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2660
Disclaimer: You kidding? I own nothing.
Warnings: Some spoilers for the seventh season and some deviation from canon at the end of the sixth.
Summary: Hell is no place for a brooding, guilty angel. So, Crowley sends Castiel on a crossroads mission. Big mistake.
hearts are made of broken glass--chapter two
Seventeenth century Scotland was, as he had expected--damp, dirty and full of clouded misery. Castiel checked his watch as he waited at the crossroads, knowing he was well behind schedule. Crowley had left him several texts demanding to know how he was getting on, and Castiel purposefully refused to answer them. It had been a ridiculous suggestion to make an angel work as a crossroads demon, let him deal with the usual efficient, celestial silence.
As suspected, there was an alehouse not far from where Castiel was standing, and from the sounds of revelry and cursing the hour was late and the fermented joy was flowing freely. He checked his watch again, impatient for this moment to simply pass. He had a lot of suffering backed up for himself, and this distraction had proved to be too interesting for him to properly focus on his misery. After the Bay City Roller roadie, he had finished up the other two in quick succession, with one young woman of Eastern European extraction wanting to be a cheerful nihilist (he wasn't quite sure he had accomplished this, but she seemed to be insufferably happy with the outcome), and a British musician who wanted the lyrics to the song that would make him a legend. Castiel had informed him that he wasn't terribly good with human poetry, and the musician had hung his head and walked away, muttering "Heaven knows, I'm miserable now."
He was now facing his last, and most important, assignment, and one that was strangely personal on Crowley's part. Though it was common knowledge what Crowley had sold his soul for, the circumstances remained murky even in the instructions Crowley had detailed out for him. 'Meet my handsome, refined, original self at a crossroads near Aberlour, in the northern tip of Scotland. It's a lovely place. Be sure to have a biscuit.' No mention at all of how Castiel was to accomplish extending Crowley's below the belt request by three inches, or the more reasonable question, which was 'Why would a rather smart creature such as Crowley make such a stupid demand?"
It seemed he was about to get his answer. A familiar figure weaved back and forth on the road, falling at intervals into the ditch, and picking himself up again as he managed to stagger towards the intersection. He sang a bawdy tune, rife with lyrics full of cursing. He was quite a mess, Castiel thought with distaste. Fergus McLeod sported a nasty black eye, a torn jacket and an overall scent that suggested he hadn't properly washed since the day he'd been born. He gave Castiel a crooked smile, a jug of ale sloshed at his lips as he spoke. His human form was missing two back teeth.
"Hello, kind stranger," Fergus said, by way of introduction. "Welcome, my lovely, to my little village. Sorry...no...welcome to my little village, my lovely..That's not right. Welcome little me lovely you village." He sighed, and rolled his eyes. "Oh hell, feck off."
He staggered past Castiel, and was stopped in mid stride by a couple of drunken locals, who each pitched a rock at him. "Go home, Fergus, you bastard lush ye!" one burly man shouted. "And pay up yer tab by tomorrow's eve, or you'll be getting a real proper beating next time, you drunken ale thief!"
The continued onward, leaving Fergus and Castiel alone at the crossroads. Mist curled between them muffling Fergus's cursing tune into uneven mumbling.
Castiel cocked his head to one side, confused. "Aren't you going to ask anything of me?"
Fergus drunkenly turned around, his eyes forcing Castiel into focus. He stood there for a few moments, taking every nuance of the stranger in, and seeming to suddenly realise what Castiel was really there for. "Yes," he said, narrowing his gaze.
Castiel readied himself for the request, preparing his mouth for the usual invasion after the terms had been dilineated. He was looking forward to getting this over with and ripping apart all the comforts Crowley no doubt had polluted his dank cell with. The plasma TV had proven rather useful, however, for going over replays of his relationship with the Winchesters, especially his moments with Dean, and the special bond they shared--which of course, he had irredeemably shattered. Such inspections left his being in tatters, his grief overwhelming and spilling out in acid tears that burned through the stones of Crowley's dungeon floor.
Yes, best to get back to despair.
"Who is your tailor?"
Castiel stared blankly at Fergus. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your tailor," Fergus said, and he was bold enough to actually touch the lapels of Castiel's trenchcoat, his fingers testing the stitching. "Bonnie bit of material, that. Lovely work. I like the cut of your jib, mate. That's real quality, there."
"Are you sure that's all you wanted to ask of me?"
Fergus paused in his inspection of Castiel's trenchcoat, his dark eyes locking onto the angel's blue depths with a strange, eager intensity. "Depends on what you are offering."
"Anything you desire," Castiel said, shrugging. He tried to back away from Fergus's grip on the lapels of his coat, but the Scottish tailor seemed oddly addicted to getting into Castiel's personal space, a point driven further as he leaned forward, forcing Castiel against the trunk of a nearby tree.
"Most men are fond of hens, but myself..." Fergus gave him a sleepy smile. "I'm partial to a nice, big, cock."
"I don't understand," Castiel said, frowning at the way Fergus pressed against him. "You want me to give you a chicken?"
"What I want from you," Fergus seductively whispered in his ear, "is three inches more than the usual."
"You will have to kiss me, first."
Fergus pressed his forehead against Castiel's, a strangely intimate gesture, the angel thought, especially with the way Fergus' fingers brushed, ever so lightly against the curve in his vessel's neck. Fergus, unlike the rest of the deals that had transpired that day, had no qualms at all about locking lips with an otherworldly being. He pressed them against Castiel's, a fiery hunger diving against Castiel's tongue that lingered far longer than the angel was anticipating. In fact, it was actually rather nice, if he cared to admit it, and he found himself sinking, just a little, into the deft skill of Fergus's mouth. How very strange...He would need to discuss this at length with Crowley later...He found himself reluctant to allow the embrace to end.
"That was not unpleasant," Castiel said, genuinely surprised.
Fergus gave him a small smile. And then, because this was a demonic meeting, and consequence demanded the act be ruined in some fashion, Fergus bent double and vomited into a puddle. This wasn't enough humiliation, however, because Fergus in his current state had no choice but to pass out in his sick and the muck, all pride utterly decimated. It was no wonder Crowley wanted to keep this quiet. In this deal, like many car accidents, disastrous oil spills and unwanted pregnancies, alcohol was an unfortunate deciding factor.
Fergus's fall had left a splatter of sick on the hem of Castiel's trenchcoat.
"Lovely," Castiel dourly observed.
///
He flew them both to the small, peatmoss roofed shack not far from the crossroads, with a stinking Fergus held aloft in his grip. A snap of his fingers cleaned the unfortunate human being up, though it did nothing to sober him. The deal had been sealed as per the usual terms, and yet Fergus seemed insistent on re-enacting the details, seeking out Castiel's lips with pleading desperation. Though the initial seal for the contract was, indeed, exceptional, the subsequent requests were nagging and needy, not to mention wholly unnecessary. Castiel shoved him off, and tossed him onto the stack of wool and straw that he assumed was the man's bed. Much to Castiel's chagrin, Fergus considered this a prelude to an amorous encounter, and drunkenly tried to paw his way into Castiel's favour.
"I like a man who takes control."
"I would prefer if you were unconscious."
Fergus frowned at this. "Can't see how that would be much fun." Then, as though the disturbing thoughts that followed somewhat sobered him, Fergus sat up on the edge of his makeshift bed, his mood significantly more cautious. His eyes were hooded in darkness, shadows playing on every worried crevice of his features. "You aren't with the Bishop, are you?" He whispered this, as though it could be considered sacrilige to even speak of it. "The Inquisitioner?"
"That is not my purpose."
Fergus breathed a sigh of relief, his sudden smile dispelling all darkness that had briefly overtaken him. "Oh, good." He reached for his jug of ale, and thought the better of it, placing it back onto the floor and shoving it to the foot of his bed. "Seeing as how you are my guest, it would be only right for me to offer you tea. You must be famished, traveller. My home is humble, but I'm sure I can scrounge up something."
Castiel gave the interiour a careful study, and was greeted with layers of neatly folded wools, carefully placed scraps and well organized sewing equipement on the far right of the tiny house, while the fireplace burned brightly within the side wall, a couple of cast iron cooking pots resting suitably beside it. Though it was only one room, the house gave off a sense of restraint and tidy respectability. Highly incongruous to the figure he had met at the crossroads, and yet strangely similar to the demon Fergus was set to become.
"You live alone," Castiel stated.
Fergus gave him a derisive snort. "I'm all the better for it. Had a wife, had a son. Neither of them remain."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"What loss? She ran off with the vicar and took the brat with her. The only time I ever saw him was when he requested I give him permission to join the church, one thing I damned bloody well wasn't going to do." He glanced at his front door, as though mindful that someone might be listening in. "Here, you seem an intelligent sort. I got something to show you."
He worked in stealth as he approached his fireplace, the flames lighting up his profile in eerie shadows. Some attempt at black magic was about to commence, Castiel thought with distaste. Yes, the demon in him was definitely showing through.
Fergus loosed a stone in his fireplace, revealing a small crevice within it. He pulled out a small booklet, the cover bound in elegant, etched leather. He didn't give it to Castiel, but bid him to take a look at it, the printed words too precious to leave his own hands. "I could be hung, or worse, for having this," he admitted. "If the Bishop only knew...Ignorant bastard, that he is, he would have me drawn and quartered on the spot."
Castiel read the title, a sense of profound confusion overtaking him. "This is not a text of the black arts," he said. "This is merely human in construction."
"Is it? I wouldn't know, I can't read a word of Italian." He pointed, eagerly, to one word that was repeated over and over. "Except for this one. Simplicio. It means simpleton. This fellow who wrote this, I was told he's referring to the church. Bloody brilliant. This thing near cost me everything I earned the past year, but it was worth it. See? Simplicio, simplicio, simplicio..." He frowned over the cryptic illustrations. "I got no clue what these are. Some sort of spell, I suppose."
"They are inked renditions of planets," Castiel informed him. "It is merely outlining a scientific theory. That the sun remains static, while the rest of the planets, including Earth, revolve around it."
Fergus scoffed at this. "Earth revolving around the sun. How ridiculous."
"The theory is correct."
Fergus faltered slightly at this, only to openly laugh. "You are very funny, you had me going there for a minute." He glanced back at the small book, and shyly closed it shut, wrapping the leather binding around it carefully. "I guess you can tell by now, I'm no fan of the church. Silly, really, spending all that money on something just for one word." His hands caressed the binding, and he looked, to Castiel, so strangely vulnerable and small in his small house, with his small amount of rebellion so secretively tucked away. "I was raised in the church, you see. The Bishop, he was forever reminding me that he had plucked me out of a Glasgow dung heap."
Curiousity got the best of Castiel. "This Bishop you speak of. He was as a father to you."
Fergus darkened at this. He quickly returned his precious book to its hiding place, the stone shoved in with more force than was necessary. "He's a powerful man, and powerful men do whatever the hell they want, to whoever the hell they want. They're monsters, the lot of them." Fergus's inner fury began to rise, his voice shouting into the still quiet of his home. " If I had my way, I'd make every one of those bastards suffer in the most unimaginable ways! Flayings and whippings, none of those are enough--Torment, real torment, that's what they'd get from me!"
Beads of sweat had formed on Fergus's brow. He forced himself to regain his polite composure, and turned back to Castiel, apologetic. "I'm sorry. I guess you should have been warned about my views on the matter, and I don't mean to offend. And don't go thinking you can go into town and start spitting off what I've told you to get me in trouble. I never did mention his Bastard Highness's name, now did I?"
"I take no offense," Castiel said, honest. He cocked his head to one side, studying the human being seated before the fire. "It's strange for me to say so, but I rather like you, Fergus McLeod. It's a shame you will not remain this way."
Fergus shrugged at this, not understanding. The mood between them lightened with Castiel's confession, and Fergus grabbed a basket off of his windowsill and offered it to Castiel. "Biscuit?" he said.
There was no time to react. Like a sudden gust of wind, the front door to his small cottage burst open, and two large, official looking men stormed in, brandishing swords, their blades drawn on either side of Fergus's neck.
"Fergus McLeod," one of them boomed into the small space. "You are charged with witchcraft, consorting with devils and being an unrepentant sodomite..."
"I know, I know, my prowess has preceded me, but this really is a bad time." Fergus stood up, the blades of the swords nicking his flesh. He gave his captors a flirting wink and nodded at Castiel. "I've already got company."
But his bravado was quickly deflated. Between the two goons, entered a tall, thin figure wearing a red robe. He cast an ominous, evil shadow over Fergus and Castiel, and though the man was clearly human, the angel had to admit there was a definite darkness about him, a viciousness that felt animalistic. Raw.
"I should have left you wallowing in shit," the Bishop said, shaking his head at his fallen protege. "I give you one simple thing to do and you screw it up. You are going to pay for this. With every bone in your pathetic body."