Entry tags:

crowley, kol mikaelson

WHO: Crowley (open to Kol Mikaelson, otherwise it’s a narrative)
WHAT: What a wanted demon thinks about in the dead of night.
WHEN: Friday night/early hours of Saturday morning. (So, yes, seriously forward dated, but hey, when a muse wants to talk, a muse wants to talk!)
WHERE: A hotel room, a couple of towns over from Lawrence. It’s a nice hotel room. Because well, these two would not settle for crap.
RATING: High for references to sex, hell and torture. You know, fun things!
STATUS: Complete as a narrative, open to Kol if wanted!
[Cut lyrics: Disturbed Hell ]

Little known fact, but demons were perfectly capable of sleeping. Even dreaming at times. Oh, they didn’t need to, they could go on perfectly happily awake all the hours that the universe wanted to offer, but sometimes sleep was just nice. Sleep was especially enjoyable after a particularly vigorous round of sex, still on a post torture high from slowly slaughtering the first Shapeshifter they had found, the kind of sex that left bruises and scratches on them both, marks that would be long gone by morning but really quite fun in the meantime, especially when Kol had sunk his fangs into Crowley’s neck just at the highest point, making pain and pleasure blur together quite deliciously.

When finally both were exhausted, sleep came remarkably easily, even with the traces of blood, theirs and the Shapeshifter’s, still staining their hands. With that kind of lazy satisfaction, Crowley even found himself dreaming.





The dreamworld he found himself in was not unfamiliar. The stench of the hellfire, the heavy weight of the oppressive screams of the damned. That intensely burning cold of the rack against the bare skin of his back, as the knife carved into his flesh, over and over and over again, coaxing every little scream from his throat. The place where time had no meaning and every second stretched into forever.

It felt just so damn real, so real that Crowley even believed it for a moment. Maybe something had slipped, maybe this was the moment finally come and even through the searing pain he was almost thankful that it was at least over, the constant running and looking over his shoulder, waiting for the axe to fall. He had been on the rack before. He would endure. He would….

“Oh Crowley. Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.” That silky tone he knew so well. Deceptively gentle, almost seductive with the way he spoke the demon’s name. One of the finalists in Worst Dad of Existence Awards. And for all his bravado, all his calling him by a girl’s name, Crowley felt a shiver of fear at the sound of Lucifer’s voice. “Did you really think it would be so simple? So predictable? My son, as if I would make your punishment this easy.”

The scene shifted, and Crowley fell forward onto his knees, the weight of Lucifer’s hand on the back of his neck keeping him in place. But he could still look up, could still see even in the dim light who had taken his place on the rack.

Kol. The vampire who had somehow moved from a casual pleasure to someone he cared about. Actually cared, no double negatives involved, had been ever since he’d felt that stab of worry during the possession, and the damned unicorn session with Lexi to force the emotions back on. Any time before, Crowley would have shrugged and moved on, but this time he had waited, actually felt concern, been relieved when Kol had come back to himself and told him he didn’t not care about Crowley being in Hell. He hated admitting it, even to himself, but Kol had become a weakness he wasn’t prepared to lose, and now, it seemed, they were paying the price for that.

Lucifer’s fingers tightened around Crowley’s neck as he forced him to watch, the manic dancing glee of Kol’s tormentor, with that insane Irish voice filling the air, calls of “fun little experiment” “making his mind snap” “told you sooooo” in between Kol’s screams as his flesh was cut and burned away, piece by piece. Crowley even strained against the grip, futile as he knew it was, spitting curses and vehemence at his ‘father’ when he laughed at the attempt. He threatened things that were quite impractical, and in a couple of places anatomically impossible at the fallen archangel, who just kept up that laughter that blended in with Kol’s screams and Crowley’s shouts and Moriarty’s glee, twisting and dancing together until finally….





Crowley woke up. Quite roughly, as it happened, sitting upright and gasping for breaths he didn’t need as the heart of his host hammered in his chest. It was strange really, how a body that wasn’t truly his still reacted to his emotions. He closed his eyes for a moment, running his hand roughly over his face as he tried to reassure himself that it had only been a dream. That the feeling of soft sheets against his skin was what was real, not the cold edge of a blade. That Kol was really asleep next to him and not screaming on the rack. Even if he did have to glance to his side more than once to make sure. No, Kol was really there, brown hair mussed against the pillow.

He hated how weak he felt as he pulled himself out of bed, his head still feeling woozy from sleep, and walked over to where a bottle of scotch stood on the table. Crowley didn’t bother with a glass, just roughly tugging the cap open and drinking straight from the bottle, feeling that soothing burn of the alcohol sliding down his throat. What part of him was tempted to do was to leave, to try to flee from the nightmare as much as possible. But the wards placed around the room not only served to keep other demons out, but kept him in. Until Kol released him, he was trapped, and wasn’t that a lovely fucking metaphor for the entire fucking situation? He would never admit it, not out loud to anyone, but Moriarty had been right. Moriarty, and the other demons who had taunted him since his double agent status has been revealed. It did plague at his mind, wondering when Hell would make its move, when Lucifer would deal out the punishment for betraying him. Part of him just wanted it to be over, to just take the oblivion of death before Lucifer could have his revenge.

Of course, saying that out loud would be a stupid plan, it would just encourage Winchester Idiots One and Two to oh so helpfully offer the Colt and a one way ticket to nothingness. No thank you. If Crowley was going to go, it was going to be on his terms, ta very much. Preferably with a glass of something better than this scotch in his hand.

As it was, it was this hotel room he was stuck in, stuck with the remnants of the nightmares that stubbornly refused to be chased away, no matter how many swigs of the bottle he took. So he stifled a groan, not wanting to actually disturb his lover, as he sat heavily down on the chair by the table, not caring that he was still shamelessly naked, because really, why would he give even a slight damn about that, and began to very determinedly work his way through the scotch. Just in case it did finally make the nightmares go back to Hell where they belonged.