A Stitch in Time, Saves Nine.
“’A stitch in time, saves nine’ nobody pays much attention to the semantics of that saying. They just know it means if you attend to things immediately they won’t spiral out of control.” Crowley mused aloud to his faithful hellhound as they kicked a path through the burnt remains of his demonic foes.
“Best deal I ever made, Growley, even if I didn’t believe so at the time.” Crowley and hound stepped onto the hallway landing, he shut the cellar door and brushed the ash from his suit. Growley shook himself clean then wondered off to find something to drink. Crowley did likewise and with a glass of Glen Craig Whiskey in hand sat down to reminisce on the day and decide how he would proceed.
“Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, still think you wasted a perfectly good opportunity but I offer a post-humorous toast. I wouldn’t be King of Hell without that handy bit of information. Not a deal breaker, but very handy titbit of information nonetheless.” Crowley mocked the silence and lifted his glass in salute.
When the Winchester mutts had handed him his mortal remains Crowley set about securing their invulnerability. The junkman’s stubbornness had won him back his soul, the use of his legs and unintentionally given Crowley an idea.
The 1600’s were a good age for witchcraft, Christianity (Catholic or Protestant) might have ruled the land and been the religion of aristocracy but in the countryside the old ways clung to hill and dale. Crowley flitted subtly through time searching for answers. In the end the answer wasn’t found in the witches’ power but in the brewers’ hands.
Aye, to be sure a witch cast the binding spell but it was the brewer’s gentle hands that mixed barley, water, sugar and yeast into the sublime drink he now sipped upon. A smooth Glen Graig single malt whiskey aged, technically thirty years, reality 350. A subtle flavouring of oak, herbs, blood and bone bound together with a singularly powerful preservative spell.
Crowley had thanked the aforementioned witch and brewer by incinerating them and adding their ashes to the whiskey. From then on it was just business as usual. Cow-towing to Azazel, Lilith and Alistair while waiting for the perfect moment to mutiny and take power for himself. Crowley sipped his whiskey and looked around his meat-suit’s study.
He gave silent thanks that his useless son had at least done one thing right and sired a child. This current body was the last in that long line of descendants and it meant that soon Crowley would achieve his goal. With every dram of whiskey drunk he came closer.
Closer to achieving a perfect symbiosis between his demons soul and a physical body. It needed only this last barrel of whiskey to be drunk and then he would be truly master of his own body and ‘soul’.
He rose and poured himself another drink. His enemies were either vanquished or weakened. Hell was under his control. Castiel had been seduced to his way of thinking. Crowley experienced a rush of pleasure at the thought of how he might further seduce the tainted angel of the Lord. But that could wait.
Growley came into the room with the remains of one of Crowley’s body guards. He rubbed the hellhound’s head affectionately and got up. There was work to do. Subordinates to abuse and monsters to torture. Sometimes, it was good to be King.
“Best deal I ever made, Growley, even if I didn’t believe so at the time.” Crowley and hound stepped onto the hallway landing, he shut the cellar door and brushed the ash from his suit. Growley shook himself clean then wondered off to find something to drink. Crowley did likewise and with a glass of Glen Craig Whiskey in hand sat down to reminisce on the day and decide how he would proceed.
“Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, still think you wasted a perfectly good opportunity but I offer a post-humorous toast. I wouldn’t be King of Hell without that handy bit of information. Not a deal breaker, but very handy titbit of information nonetheless.” Crowley mocked the silence and lifted his glass in salute.
When the Winchester mutts had handed him his mortal remains Crowley set about securing their invulnerability. The junkman’s stubbornness had won him back his soul, the use of his legs and unintentionally given Crowley an idea.
The 1600’s were a good age for witchcraft, Christianity (Catholic or Protestant) might have ruled the land and been the religion of aristocracy but in the countryside the old ways clung to hill and dale. Crowley flitted subtly through time searching for answers. In the end the answer wasn’t found in the witches’ power but in the brewers’ hands.
Aye, to be sure a witch cast the binding spell but it was the brewer’s gentle hands that mixed barley, water, sugar and yeast into the sublime drink he now sipped upon. A smooth Glen Graig single malt whiskey aged, technically thirty years, reality 350. A subtle flavouring of oak, herbs, blood and bone bound together with a singularly powerful preservative spell.
Crowley had thanked the aforementioned witch and brewer by incinerating them and adding their ashes to the whiskey. From then on it was just business as usual. Cow-towing to Azazel, Lilith and Alistair while waiting for the perfect moment to mutiny and take power for himself. Crowley sipped his whiskey and looked around his meat-suit’s study.
He gave silent thanks that his useless son had at least done one thing right and sired a child. This current body was the last in that long line of descendants and it meant that soon Crowley would achieve his goal. With every dram of whiskey drunk he came closer.
Closer to achieving a perfect symbiosis between his demons soul and a physical body. It needed only this last barrel of whiskey to be drunk and then he would be truly master of his own body and ‘soul’.
He rose and poured himself another drink. His enemies were either vanquished or weakened. Hell was under his control. Castiel had been seduced to his way of thinking. Crowley experienced a rush of pleasure at the thought of how he might further seduce the tainted angel of the Lord. But that could wait.
Growley came into the room with the remains of one of Crowley’s body guards. He rubbed the hellhound’s head affectionately and got up. There was work to do. Subordinates to abuse and monsters to torture. Sometimes, it was good to be King.