Chapter Text
“How long have you had him?”
“Couple days.” Dean wipes his hands down with a rag that is stiff with blood. “He hasn’t said shit yet, though.”
Castiel peers past Dean to look into the basement behind him. The devil’s trap stands out starkly in the gloom of the single lightbulb, with the thick white paint almost shining bright, save where blood mars it. The seated figure in the center is still, and the chains around it hardly making a sound.
“May I?”
Dean shrugs. “Sure. I could use the break.”
Castiel steps through the threshold. He can feel the warding sigils painted on every wall, the ceiling, and the floor. When he shuts the door, he sees that it, too, bears sigils. It must feel like drowning to a demon, he thinks. Or being buried alive. A suffocating, eternal pressure.
“Crowley.”
The figure looks up. There’s blood on his face, both new and old, and dark bruises beneath. His eyes shine with hellfire, though, so Castiel knows the demon is still trying to keep his head above water.
“Angel.” Crowley’s voice is a hoarse croak. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Castiel crosses the room and steps into the devil’s trap. Dean’s work looks worse up close: Crowley has managed to heal his wounds partway, despite the sigils, but it’s not enough.
“You look tired,” Castiel comments.
Crowley gives him a bloody grin. “Absolutely shagged.”
Castiel thinks that’s the first truth Crowley has spoken within these walls.
The angel glances to the steel table pressed against the wall. He’s seen this kind of spread before: the knives, the salt, the holy water. Dean had it all set out for Alastair. Of course, back then, Dean had shown reluctance in torture. Not so now.
“How do you like the toys?” Crowley asks, drawing Castiel’s attention back to him. “They don’t really scratch my itch.” The bravado is almost convincing, despite the blood and the chains. “Junior doesn’t know what makes me tick.”
The words bring back the memory of a whisper in his ear and how that sent fire down his spine.
Let’s figure out what makes you tick.
“But I do.”
It’s not a question, but Crowley takes it as such. “May be, love,” he says, cocking his head to one side.
Castiel tilts his head to the side as well, and the mirroring – or perhaps the gesture itself – seems to unsettle Crowley. When Castiel places his hand to Crowley’s cheek, he feels the demon flinch, then grind his teeth as he struggles to keep still. To pretend.
With his thumb, Castiel wipes away a smear of blood on Crowley’s cheek, then does the same to Crowley’s mouth. He is gentle about it. The last time he did this, Crowley bit him, albeit softly. Then, Crowley’s lips were bruised by kisses, not fists, and all Castiel could wipe away was the ghost of a smile.
Castiel gathers his grace and he knows Crowley can feel it. The demon says nothing, does nothing. Only his eyes grow even redder as he pushes all of hell to the surface. Bracing himself.
He is still bracing himself long after Castiel has healed his wounds. Castiel drops his hand away from Crowley’s face and rubs the blood staining his hand between his fingertips with distaste. He thinks of the rag Dean took with him, but knows it would do no good. It was too soiled.
“I didn’t ask you for that,” Crowley mutters. His eyes are what pass for human again, though, so Castiel takes the words as thanks.
“Why haven’t you?” he asks. He stops trying to wipe the blood off his hand. “You know what you’re owed.”
Crowley tilts his head back and answers with a toothy grin. “That’s for a rainy day, Feathers. This?” He jerks his chin at the room. “This is nothing.”
Castiel sighs. “Crowley,” he says, leaning down close, his hands braced on Crowley’s thighs. The trousers are slick with blood and he can feel the holes in the cloth, left behind by a knife. “It never rains, but it pours.”
Crowley holds his gaze, stubbornness in every line of his face. His resistance fades by increments as Castiel simply waits.
“Then what’s stopping you?”
Castiel smiles. That’s good enough.