Look Out On A Summer's Day
Title: Look Out On A Summer’s Day
Creator: verucasalt123
Recipient: be_my_precious
Rating: PG
Word Count or Media: ~1100
Warnings: mentions of torture/Hell
Summary: For the SPN Summergen prompt “Heaven and Hell aren’t the same anymore”.
After sending away three of the four demons who’d come to give him bad news, and instructing one of them to sweep up the ashen remains of the fourth, Crowley sat on his throne with his head in his hands.
He hadn’t enjoyed it. At all. It seemed nothing brought him even the slightest bit of pleasure these days. It had been weeks since he’d bothered to participate in any actual torturing of souls. He’d mostly delegated all of the torture once he’d been put in charge anyway. Hell had changed drastically with Crowley’s new job title, but it’s not like the whole eternity of pain and misery thing was optional. Long lines and psychological agony aside, suffering souls were an important part of the brand.
To no one’s surprise, Crowley had jumped at the chance to be King as soon as it had been offered. It was one of the very rare occasions when he’d made a decision without thinking through the consequences. He was usually at least three or four steps ahead in his mind, which was the secret behind his longevity. The power was brilliant, but the shiny-new had begun to wear off fairly quickly. It had been a dreadful deal, Crowley had to admit, though deal-making had always been his area of expertise. So many times he wanted to shake off the responsibility, the endless bureaucracy, the weight of it all. He longed for his centuries at the crossroads - the simplicity of answering a call, making a deal, sealing it with a kiss and moving on to the next one.
The vibration of the phone in his pocket could only mean one thing. Crowley was thankful almost before he even looked at it. At least it would give him a legitimate reason to get out of Hell for some period of time. The text read: “Meet us at the bunker, don’t try to pull any bullshit”. He could almost hear the words coming out of the Moose’s mouth.
At around the same time that day, Castiel was in Mankato, a small Kansas town about a half an hour’s drive down I-36 from Lebanon. There wasn’t much to see in Mankato, but there was even less in Lebanon. He was sitting on a brightly painted bench, watching children play in the park and on the playground equipment.
He’d been on earth long enough to know how to avoid trouble - he had learned that someone perceived as an adult male wasn’t supposed to find any joy in watching children play. At least, not unless one of those children was his own. Dean said people would think he was R. Kelly, and Sam told him he didn’t want people thinking he was a pedophile. Castiel, of course, returned the next day to point out that he bore no resemblance to R. Kelly, who was in fact a hebephile and not a pedophile. This information was, of course, met with rolled eyes and shaking heads.
Things were easier when he could count on his powers to make him move, make him invisible, make him able to heal with only a thought. These days, Castiel drove almost everywhere, just in case. He had actually begun to like driving; listening to the radio and looking at the scenery were new opportunities for him to learn things about humanity that he’d never bothered to take in before.
He had even started to like the phone that was presently buzzing in his coat pocket. The text read “Hey Cas, we’re on our way back to the bunker, can you meet us there?” He responded in the affirmative and headed to his car.
At the bunker, there were no Winchesters and no Impala to be seen. Castiel stayed in the car with the radio on, singing along to the music.
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you
Starry, starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Somehow Castiel had let his mind wander so far into the song that the knock on his passenger side window startled him. How the hell had he managed to be so distracted that he hadn’t sensed the presence of a demon? Specifically this demon? At least his ability to materialize his blade was consistent.
Stepping out and rounding the front of the vehicle, an angry and narrow eyed angel approached Crowley. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Calm down, Feathers, I was invited”, Crowley responded.
Castiel continued to stare, unconvinced. Crowley produced his phone to show the text he’d gotten from Sam.
“Relax, Cas. Can you get us inside?”
“It’s warded. You know that”, replied Castiel. He was annoyed at having to admit that he couldn’t get inside, but at the same time, that meant he was still enough of an angel to be kept out by the warding.
“Where are the Hardy Boys? They’re the ones summoning us.”
“On their way”, Castiel said, unwilling to admit he had no idea what the two of them were doing there.
An awkward silence passed, the two of them standing near the door. Crowley, of course, was the one to break it.
“Impressive pipes there. Didn’t peg you for a folk music fan, but then I never knew you could sing, either.”
Castiel turned and looked at his unwelcome company as if he were the most stupid creature he’d ever encountered. “I’m an angel. As in “choirs of angels”. We all have the ability, our Father created us to sing His praises.”
“Hmm”, said Crowley. “Never thought of it like that. How is Heaven these days?”
Somehow, Castiel’s anger had turned to mere annoyance. “Quiet. Different. I don’t know if Heaven’s changed all that much or if it’s me. Doesn’t feel like home.”
Well, shit. He hadn’t meant to say that much.
But Crowley found himself reciprocating. “Hell’s not the same either. I’m supposed to be running the place, and I can hardly stand to be there.”
“I’ve realized over the years that nothing stays the same for too long. Not since the apocalypse, anyway”, said Castiel.
In the distance, the rumble of the Impala’s engine was clear to both Crowley and Castiel.
Crowley let out a quiet laugh. “Except this, right? We come when we’re called, that certainly hasn’t changed.”
They put a respectable amount of distance between them and waited to find out what today’s emergency situation would be.
Creator: verucasalt123
Recipient: be_my_precious
Rating: PG
Word Count or Media: ~1100
Warnings: mentions of torture/Hell
Summary: For the SPN Summergen prompt “Heaven and Hell aren’t the same anymore”.
After sending away three of the four demons who’d come to give him bad news, and instructing one of them to sweep up the ashen remains of the fourth, Crowley sat on his throne with his head in his hands.
He hadn’t enjoyed it. At all. It seemed nothing brought him even the slightest bit of pleasure these days. It had been weeks since he’d bothered to participate in any actual torturing of souls. He’d mostly delegated all of the torture once he’d been put in charge anyway. Hell had changed drastically with Crowley’s new job title, but it’s not like the whole eternity of pain and misery thing was optional. Long lines and psychological agony aside, suffering souls were an important part of the brand.
To no one’s surprise, Crowley had jumped at the chance to be King as soon as it had been offered. It was one of the very rare occasions when he’d made a decision without thinking through the consequences. He was usually at least three or four steps ahead in his mind, which was the secret behind his longevity. The power was brilliant, but the shiny-new had begun to wear off fairly quickly. It had been a dreadful deal, Crowley had to admit, though deal-making had always been his area of expertise. So many times he wanted to shake off the responsibility, the endless bureaucracy, the weight of it all. He longed for his centuries at the crossroads - the simplicity of answering a call, making a deal, sealing it with a kiss and moving on to the next one.
The vibration of the phone in his pocket could only mean one thing. Crowley was thankful almost before he even looked at it. At least it would give him a legitimate reason to get out of Hell for some period of time. The text read: “Meet us at the bunker, don’t try to pull any bullshit”. He could almost hear the words coming out of the Moose’s mouth.
At around the same time that day, Castiel was in Mankato, a small Kansas town about a half an hour’s drive down I-36 from Lebanon. There wasn’t much to see in Mankato, but there was even less in Lebanon. He was sitting on a brightly painted bench, watching children play in the park and on the playground equipment.
He’d been on earth long enough to know how to avoid trouble - he had learned that someone perceived as an adult male wasn’t supposed to find any joy in watching children play. At least, not unless one of those children was his own. Dean said people would think he was R. Kelly, and Sam told him he didn’t want people thinking he was a pedophile. Castiel, of course, returned the next day to point out that he bore no resemblance to R. Kelly, who was in fact a hebephile and not a pedophile. This information was, of course, met with rolled eyes and shaking heads.
Things were easier when he could count on his powers to make him move, make him invisible, make him able to heal with only a thought. These days, Castiel drove almost everywhere, just in case. He had actually begun to like driving; listening to the radio and looking at the scenery were new opportunities for him to learn things about humanity that he’d never bothered to take in before.
He had even started to like the phone that was presently buzzing in his coat pocket. The text read “Hey Cas, we’re on our way back to the bunker, can you meet us there?” He responded in the affirmative and headed to his car.
At the bunker, there were no Winchesters and no Impala to be seen. Castiel stayed in the car with the radio on, singing along to the music.
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you
Starry, starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Somehow Castiel had let his mind wander so far into the song that the knock on his passenger side window startled him. How the hell had he managed to be so distracted that he hadn’t sensed the presence of a demon? Specifically this demon? At least his ability to materialize his blade was consistent.
Stepping out and rounding the front of the vehicle, an angry and narrow eyed angel approached Crowley. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Calm down, Feathers, I was invited”, Crowley responded.
Castiel continued to stare, unconvinced. Crowley produced his phone to show the text he’d gotten from Sam.
“Relax, Cas. Can you get us inside?”
“It’s warded. You know that”, replied Castiel. He was annoyed at having to admit that he couldn’t get inside, but at the same time, that meant he was still enough of an angel to be kept out by the warding.
“Where are the Hardy Boys? They’re the ones summoning us.”
“On their way”, Castiel said, unwilling to admit he had no idea what the two of them were doing there.
An awkward silence passed, the two of them standing near the door. Crowley, of course, was the one to break it.
“Impressive pipes there. Didn’t peg you for a folk music fan, but then I never knew you could sing, either.”
Castiel turned and looked at his unwelcome company as if he were the most stupid creature he’d ever encountered. “I’m an angel. As in “choirs of angels”. We all have the ability, our Father created us to sing His praises.”
“Hmm”, said Crowley. “Never thought of it like that. How is Heaven these days?”
Somehow, Castiel’s anger had turned to mere annoyance. “Quiet. Different. I don’t know if Heaven’s changed all that much or if it’s me. Doesn’t feel like home.”
Well, shit. He hadn’t meant to say that much.
But Crowley found himself reciprocating. “Hell’s not the same either. I’m supposed to be running the place, and I can hardly stand to be there.”
“I’ve realized over the years that nothing stays the same for too long. Not since the apocalypse, anyway”, said Castiel.
In the distance, the rumble of the Impala’s engine was clear to both Crowley and Castiel.
Crowley let out a quiet laugh. “Except this, right? We come when we’re called, that certainly hasn’t changed.”
They put a respectable amount of distance between them and waited to find out what today’s emergency situation would be.