Hearts Are Made Of Broken Glass 5/13 (Crowley, Castiel, Dean, rated PG-13)
Title: Hearts Are Made Of Broken Glass
Chapter: 5/13
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: 2159
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 five
Another bottle smashed, and Bobby winced at the impact. "He's been holed up in there, tearing apart that bomb shelter for three days now. He sucked back all my booze and all I got left is skunky Old Milwalke. I tried every exorcism and spell I can think of, and studied a few new ones besides, but nothing is making that devil budge. Don't matter how much hellfire I throw at him, he just shakes off the cinders and keeps at it." He crossed his arms and shook his head, his annoyance at the situation palpable. "If this keeps up I'm charging the bastard rent. At least he'd owe me something for all this trouble."
Sam was the one who had to state the obvious. "Have you tried talking to him?"
Bobby wanted to argue against this, but his shoulders slumped and he sank into the worn leathered chair behind his large oak desk. An ancient cup of coffee with floating bits of fluffy mold were jostled out of their slumber as he pushed it aside to clear an area on the cluttered surface. He reached into the depths of the bottom right hand drawer and pulled out a bottle of weathered sambuca. "Nasty stuff," he said, making a face as he poured himself a shot. "Fellow hunter left this behind once and I kept meaning to throw it out. Now it's all I got left. It's like bad licorice that burns diesel fuel down your throat. But beggars can't be choosers these days." He offered some to the Winchesters, who both politely declined. He braced himself and took the shot, his mouth grimacing as it poured its liquid heat down around his heart. He slammed the shot glass onto the surface of his desk and coughed. "For once the bastard doesn't know how to talk. He mumbles crap about angels and demons and the past creeping on the present and none of it makes any sense. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's lost his marbles but good."
"What do angels have to do with anything?" Dean asked.
"Hell if I know," Bobby said. He thought about pouring himself another shot, only to curse as he paused, and put the strong tasting liquer back into its hiding place. "If you're so keen on talking to the devil, go ahead and see what he has to say. Maybe you'll have better luck flushing out a full sentence."
"Must be something really bothering him if he's holing up here of all places," Sam said, his hands deep in his pockets, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Why would he come here?" Dean asked, and Bobby remained mum on the subject, the foul sambuca tempting his palate yet again. "The last time we saw Crowley he was running out the back door. As for angels, well, they have a great way of disappearing right when you need them most. 'As above, so below.' Kind of a head's up on how similar all those jerks are if you ask me." Dean punched his fist into his palm and gave his brother and Bobby a firm, resolute nod towards the back end of the house. "I guess we just do what we always do. Face this thing head on and punch our way through it. Rocksalt, holy water and blessed bullets. The Winchester trinity."
Bobby cursed as another bottle smashed against the wall of the bomb shelter. "I re-use those, you idjit!" he shouted into the depths of the house. "Damn mo-ron! Those are my good rotgut bottles! Seasoned for decades of good 'shine and you're smashing up my supplies!" He breathed in swear words that Sam and Dean hadn't heard in a long, long time. He stood out of Dean's way. "Get down there and do what you can. I'll have nothing to keep my own engines running if that idjit keeps this up. Don't let up until you get a straight answer, he's more slippery than usual these last few days." He glared at their hesitation. "Well, go on! Git! What do you want to do, wait for me to hand you the damned eviction notice! Get going and crack open that devil, because dammit I'm all out of ideas!"
***
Sam crept down the wooden stairs, every step he took creaking beneath his weight. He ducked beneath a beam, his brother following close behind him with a flashlight. "I'm not exactly fond of this place," Sam admitted, swallowing as he took in the shape of the bomb shelter, its strangely submarine appearance making his mouth go dry. "I don't know why anyone would willfully put themselves in there. It's like being in a coffin while you're alive."
Dean gave his brother a guilt ridden look. "Yeah, well...You know I wouldn't have done that to you if I had a choice."
Sam frowned, his confusion evident. "Dean, I don't blame you for those times. Not at all. I was out of control and you did what you had to do, I fully understand that."
"Maybe," Dean said, somewhat unconvinced. "I don't exactly have fond memories of that thing either."
Sam tiptoed his way closer, the floor littered in front of the bomb shelter littered with broken amber bottles, a good month's supply of Bobby's favourite stash laying in ruins before him. He pushed the larger pieces out of the way with the heel of his workboots, his worry over their possible hexing making every step a hazardous one. "Crowley?" he called into the gloom, his hands at his sides, palms open, doing all the by the book psychology he could muster to appear non-threatening, "I'm not here to do anything, no exorcisms, no rocksalt, no holy water, no bullets..." Dean gave him an exasperated 'Oh really?' look and Sam could only shrug. "It's just Dean and I and we're just here to talk. Nothing else."
Silence.
Sam and Dean tiptoed closer to the bomb shelter entrance. They were shocked to see the door was still partially open, and through a tiny sliver they could discern a rather dishevelled Crowley sitting on the simple bunk bed, its surface littered with bottles. More were piled high around his feet, where they rolled back and forth on the uneven floor. The demon took a long swig from the bottle in his hand before motioning to the large steel door. His palms were burned black. "Close the door and lock me in," Crowley demanded. He placed the bottle on the floor and held up his injured palms. "I've tried, I can't do it."
"Enochian symbols," Sam said, frowning.
Sam and Dean stepped into the chamber with Crowley, respectfully closing the door behind them.
***
It was kind of a relief, actually, to have the brothers Grimm holed up in the same self-imposed cell he'd made for himself, because at least now the door was officially closed and he could fall back onto the small bunk bed and properly relax. He rested his head on the pillow, which smelled of jasmine freshness (Sam Winchester really knew his fabric softener) and, as a measure of thanks, he handed an opened bottle of Bobby's moonshine to Sam, who took it with frowning concern. It was as Crowley was opening a new bottle that he eyed the bottle he'd handed Sam with question. Was it full of booze or piss? Oh well, no matter, the sasquatch wasn't thirsty and he had a new bottled friend, and if his sulking brother couldn't get in on the game either, well, he could play possum all by himself, thank you muchly.
"I hear you quit being the King of Hell," Dean observed.
"Amazing how fast those memos get around," Crowley replied.
Sam let out a frustrated sigh and snatched the bottle out of Crowley's charcoal crisped palm. "You can't live in Bobby's basement," he announced. "For one, he has a rat problem, and frankly, those rats are slumming."
"I don't know, I find it rather cozy."
"Why have you locked yourself in here?" Dean asked.
"..And crowded."
"I can only think of one reason why someone like you would lock yourself in an old bomb shelter that burns your palms every time you touch the door," Sam said, hands on his hips as he regarded the soused version of the King of Hell. Correction. *Retired* King of Hell. "Either you don't want something getting out, or you don't want something getting in, and I'm guessing in a big way it's the latter." He narrowed his eyes on Crowley. "What are you so afraid of?"
"It's got nothing to do with any of you," Crowley snapped.
"Oh I think it does," Dean quipped. "If you've locked yourself in here because you're scared, heck, much as I want to snap your little weasel neck, I have to say, cowardice isn't a description I'd give you, so if there's a boogeyman crawling out of your closet, it puts us all on edge."
Crowley snatched back his bottle from Sam and took a long swig. "It's personal. No need for you to fret."
"Yeah, right," Dean said, pacing before him. "What kind of personal are we talking here? More monsters? New and improved breeds of terrible things? Angels getting all up in your business?"
"Is he ever," Crowley said before he could stop himself. He sneered at Sam and Dean's questioning looks. "I give him sanctuary. I let him mope about, being a royal buzz kill. Can you blame me for getting sick of seeing his self imposed misery day in and day out, none of it created by me, by the way, and all the while he's chipping away at my own resources for his self torture. He was sponging off of me, and frankly it pissed me off. So, I make him pay his way. I give him a job. A stupid, little job to keep him busy and what does he do?" Crowley downed the last drop out of his bottle and began a search for a new one. Sam kicked it out of his way, forcing him to continue his story. "It's not fair," Crowley whined. "He plucks the one miserable bastard from my past and plunks him at my feet like some proud golden retriever dog. Like it was some prize and he deserved a bone. Bullocks! I should have sent him to the last tier of Hell like he'd wanted and just washed my hands of him!"
Dean exchanged glances with his brother. "Who are you talking about?" Sam asked.
"Castiel! That stupid moron! He pulled my former guardian out of Heaven, trussed him up in a burlap sack and dragged him to Hell, just like that! Idiot!"
There was a long pause at this.
"Castiel is alive?" Sam asked.
"Not for long if I get my way," Crowley shot back.
The news of their friend and betrayer still being alive left Dean reeling, and Sam wasn't exactly feeling the love himself. The last they'd known of Castiel, he'd filled himself full to bursting with the Leviathan, and then collapsed under the weight of its power. It had been quite a mess to clean up, not the least of which was the loss of a being they had trusted and called their friend. He'd betrayed them in the belief that he'd been right and it was that arrogance that had shattered the bond that had been created. By the look of things, he hadn't exactly learned his lesson yet.
Dean was doing all he could to keep his anger in check, but it was hard going. "Cas is alive," he muttered. He ran his palm across his chin, holding in his fury. "I don't get it. So he brings back your adoptive father, what's the big deal? I got issues with my old man too, but I'm not about to hole myself up in a metal coffin for his sake."
"My guardian was a priest. A bishop, to be precise, one of a high order. He was also a pedophile and an Inquisitioner. My childhood, if you want to call it that, made Hell a piece of cake in comparison." He picked up the well worn copy of American Psycho to give it another peruse, the corners near tatters from harshly turned pages. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like some time alone for some light reading. Be sure to shut the door on your way out."
Chapter: 5/13
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: 2159
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 five
Another bottle smashed, and Bobby winced at the impact. "He's been holed up in there, tearing apart that bomb shelter for three days now. He sucked back all my booze and all I got left is skunky Old Milwalke. I tried every exorcism and spell I can think of, and studied a few new ones besides, but nothing is making that devil budge. Don't matter how much hellfire I throw at him, he just shakes off the cinders and keeps at it." He crossed his arms and shook his head, his annoyance at the situation palpable. "If this keeps up I'm charging the bastard rent. At least he'd owe me something for all this trouble."
Sam was the one who had to state the obvious. "Have you tried talking to him?"
Bobby wanted to argue against this, but his shoulders slumped and he sank into the worn leathered chair behind his large oak desk. An ancient cup of coffee with floating bits of fluffy mold were jostled out of their slumber as he pushed it aside to clear an area on the cluttered surface. He reached into the depths of the bottom right hand drawer and pulled out a bottle of weathered sambuca. "Nasty stuff," he said, making a face as he poured himself a shot. "Fellow hunter left this behind once and I kept meaning to throw it out. Now it's all I got left. It's like bad licorice that burns diesel fuel down your throat. But beggars can't be choosers these days." He offered some to the Winchesters, who both politely declined. He braced himself and took the shot, his mouth grimacing as it poured its liquid heat down around his heart. He slammed the shot glass onto the surface of his desk and coughed. "For once the bastard doesn't know how to talk. He mumbles crap about angels and demons and the past creeping on the present and none of it makes any sense. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's lost his marbles but good."
"What do angels have to do with anything?" Dean asked.
"Hell if I know," Bobby said. He thought about pouring himself another shot, only to curse as he paused, and put the strong tasting liquer back into its hiding place. "If you're so keen on talking to the devil, go ahead and see what he has to say. Maybe you'll have better luck flushing out a full sentence."
"Must be something really bothering him if he's holing up here of all places," Sam said, his hands deep in his pockets, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Why would he come here?" Dean asked, and Bobby remained mum on the subject, the foul sambuca tempting his palate yet again. "The last time we saw Crowley he was running out the back door. As for angels, well, they have a great way of disappearing right when you need them most. 'As above, so below.' Kind of a head's up on how similar all those jerks are if you ask me." Dean punched his fist into his palm and gave his brother and Bobby a firm, resolute nod towards the back end of the house. "I guess we just do what we always do. Face this thing head on and punch our way through it. Rocksalt, holy water and blessed bullets. The Winchester trinity."
Bobby cursed as another bottle smashed against the wall of the bomb shelter. "I re-use those, you idjit!" he shouted into the depths of the house. "Damn mo-ron! Those are my good rotgut bottles! Seasoned for decades of good 'shine and you're smashing up my supplies!" He breathed in swear words that Sam and Dean hadn't heard in a long, long time. He stood out of Dean's way. "Get down there and do what you can. I'll have nothing to keep my own engines running if that idjit keeps this up. Don't let up until you get a straight answer, he's more slippery than usual these last few days." He glared at their hesitation. "Well, go on! Git! What do you want to do, wait for me to hand you the damned eviction notice! Get going and crack open that devil, because dammit I'm all out of ideas!"
***
Sam crept down the wooden stairs, every step he took creaking beneath his weight. He ducked beneath a beam, his brother following close behind him with a flashlight. "I'm not exactly fond of this place," Sam admitted, swallowing as he took in the shape of the bomb shelter, its strangely submarine appearance making his mouth go dry. "I don't know why anyone would willfully put themselves in there. It's like being in a coffin while you're alive."
Dean gave his brother a guilt ridden look. "Yeah, well...You know I wouldn't have done that to you if I had a choice."
Sam frowned, his confusion evident. "Dean, I don't blame you for those times. Not at all. I was out of control and you did what you had to do, I fully understand that."
"Maybe," Dean said, somewhat unconvinced. "I don't exactly have fond memories of that thing either."
Sam tiptoed his way closer, the floor littered in front of the bomb shelter littered with broken amber bottles, a good month's supply of Bobby's favourite stash laying in ruins before him. He pushed the larger pieces out of the way with the heel of his workboots, his worry over their possible hexing making every step a hazardous one. "Crowley?" he called into the gloom, his hands at his sides, palms open, doing all the by the book psychology he could muster to appear non-threatening, "I'm not here to do anything, no exorcisms, no rocksalt, no holy water, no bullets..." Dean gave him an exasperated 'Oh really?' look and Sam could only shrug. "It's just Dean and I and we're just here to talk. Nothing else."
Silence.
Sam and Dean tiptoed closer to the bomb shelter entrance. They were shocked to see the door was still partially open, and through a tiny sliver they could discern a rather dishevelled Crowley sitting on the simple bunk bed, its surface littered with bottles. More were piled high around his feet, where they rolled back and forth on the uneven floor. The demon took a long swig from the bottle in his hand before motioning to the large steel door. His palms were burned black. "Close the door and lock me in," Crowley demanded. He placed the bottle on the floor and held up his injured palms. "I've tried, I can't do it."
"Enochian symbols," Sam said, frowning.
Sam and Dean stepped into the chamber with Crowley, respectfully closing the door behind them.
***
It was kind of a relief, actually, to have the brothers Grimm holed up in the same self-imposed cell he'd made for himself, because at least now the door was officially closed and he could fall back onto the small bunk bed and properly relax. He rested his head on the pillow, which smelled of jasmine freshness (Sam Winchester really knew his fabric softener) and, as a measure of thanks, he handed an opened bottle of Bobby's moonshine to Sam, who took it with frowning concern. It was as Crowley was opening a new bottle that he eyed the bottle he'd handed Sam with question. Was it full of booze or piss? Oh well, no matter, the sasquatch wasn't thirsty and he had a new bottled friend, and if his sulking brother couldn't get in on the game either, well, he could play possum all by himself, thank you muchly.
"I hear you quit being the King of Hell," Dean observed.
"Amazing how fast those memos get around," Crowley replied.
Sam let out a frustrated sigh and snatched the bottle out of Crowley's charcoal crisped palm. "You can't live in Bobby's basement," he announced. "For one, he has a rat problem, and frankly, those rats are slumming."
"I don't know, I find it rather cozy."
"Why have you locked yourself in here?" Dean asked.
"..And crowded."
"I can only think of one reason why someone like you would lock yourself in an old bomb shelter that burns your palms every time you touch the door," Sam said, hands on his hips as he regarded the soused version of the King of Hell. Correction. *Retired* King of Hell. "Either you don't want something getting out, or you don't want something getting in, and I'm guessing in a big way it's the latter." He narrowed his eyes on Crowley. "What are you so afraid of?"
"It's got nothing to do with any of you," Crowley snapped.
"Oh I think it does," Dean quipped. "If you've locked yourself in here because you're scared, heck, much as I want to snap your little weasel neck, I have to say, cowardice isn't a description I'd give you, so if there's a boogeyman crawling out of your closet, it puts us all on edge."
Crowley snatched back his bottle from Sam and took a long swig. "It's personal. No need for you to fret."
"Yeah, right," Dean said, pacing before him. "What kind of personal are we talking here? More monsters? New and improved breeds of terrible things? Angels getting all up in your business?"
"Is he ever," Crowley said before he could stop himself. He sneered at Sam and Dean's questioning looks. "I give him sanctuary. I let him mope about, being a royal buzz kill. Can you blame me for getting sick of seeing his self imposed misery day in and day out, none of it created by me, by the way, and all the while he's chipping away at my own resources for his self torture. He was sponging off of me, and frankly it pissed me off. So, I make him pay his way. I give him a job. A stupid, little job to keep him busy and what does he do?" Crowley downed the last drop out of his bottle and began a search for a new one. Sam kicked it out of his way, forcing him to continue his story. "It's not fair," Crowley whined. "He plucks the one miserable bastard from my past and plunks him at my feet like some proud golden retriever dog. Like it was some prize and he deserved a bone. Bullocks! I should have sent him to the last tier of Hell like he'd wanted and just washed my hands of him!"
Dean exchanged glances with his brother. "Who are you talking about?" Sam asked.
"Castiel! That stupid moron! He pulled my former guardian out of Heaven, trussed him up in a burlap sack and dragged him to Hell, just like that! Idiot!"
There was a long pause at this.
"Castiel is alive?" Sam asked.
"Not for long if I get my way," Crowley shot back.
The news of their friend and betrayer still being alive left Dean reeling, and Sam wasn't exactly feeling the love himself. The last they'd known of Castiel, he'd filled himself full to bursting with the Leviathan, and then collapsed under the weight of its power. It had been quite a mess to clean up, not the least of which was the loss of a being they had trusted and called their friend. He'd betrayed them in the belief that he'd been right and it was that arrogance that had shattered the bond that had been created. By the look of things, he hadn't exactly learned his lesson yet.
Dean was doing all he could to keep his anger in check, but it was hard going. "Cas is alive," he muttered. He ran his palm across his chin, holding in his fury. "I don't get it. So he brings back your adoptive father, what's the big deal? I got issues with my old man too, but I'm not about to hole myself up in a metal coffin for his sake."
"My guardian was a priest. A bishop, to be precise, one of a high order. He was also a pedophile and an Inquisitioner. My childhood, if you want to call it that, made Hell a piece of cake in comparison." He picked up the well worn copy of American Psycho to give it another peruse, the corners near tatters from harshly turned pages. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like some time alone for some light reading. Be sure to shut the door on your way out."