2586/The Angel and Demon on My Shoulders

The Angel and Demon on My Shoulders
Date of Scene:	24 September 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	What happens when an angel, a demon, a human, and a bottle of whiskey meet at a Crossroads? Posturing. Arguing. And... sleep.
Cast of Characters:	Dean Winchester, Castiel, Crowley

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Dean Winchester has posed:
It was a long drive from Hell's Kitchen to one of the rural areas outside the buzzing city. And increasingly, Dean has come to recognize the virtues of not driving in New York proper. It took a long time to get outside the city and find somewhere he felt he could remotely recognize the sky. The black night sky almost has stars out here. If he squints he can see them, or, at least, imagines he can see them.

He's off the beaten path. At a Crossroads familiar to him.

Sitting in the front seat of the Impala, he leans over, opens the dash and extracts a dusty box. It's been used so many times to summon crossroads demons as of late, it's starting to look worn. He actually smirks when he glances at the seat next to him. He'd drawn the demon trap into the car only hours before. One centring each potential seat. No demon is getting out of his car if it dares get in.

His cheeks blow out and he sets the box beside him. He reaches to the floor and tugs the brown paper bag off the large bottle of whiskey. His eyebrows lift and his head shakes.

Dextrous hands work at the lid, twisting it off and setting it on the dash before bringing it to his lips and taking a swig. His expression sours. It's strong.

Castiel has posed:
Watch him, she'd said. Be the pain in his ass, she'd said.. No that was him. He'd said that. "I will be the pain in his ass." Not knowing how he'd ever so slightly butchered the phrasing of the thing, while being ever so correct about what he'd be. He was keeping his promise, though, Castiel keeping a closer eye on the brothers - Dean in particular.

It wasn't for lack of love for the younger, but there was something about Sam that struck the angel in a different way. Sam carried himself through things with less of the bravado that Castiel had seen and felt on battlefields. Sam carried himself like someone who knew, or felt, his place in this world. There was an air of much more carefully measured confidence to him. Like a warrior who knew the measure of a blade in his hands.

Dean? Well, it had taken May to make Castiel see it. To focus down upon the heart of it, but once he had, now he saw it. If Sam carried a blade like he knew it's weight, Dean carried one with the desperation of one who no longer had anything to lose. He wasn't unskilled, but at the heart of it...

The demon trap was quaint, though. It drew a ruffle of a smirk from Castiel as he watched Dean place them. They wouldn't bother him, but they would suffice for any other number of things. It was just as well they wouldn't harm him, for Dean's next action was drawing out the bottle of whiskey - Whiskey Castiel knew. It was part of the boilermakers the vessel was fond of - and began drinking alone. A thing he'd been noticing that humans didn't do. Even those who nursed such beverages by themselves in bars had sought out the company of a public place and other bodies to do it near. Only those in the streets, past the point of helping, drank from brown paper bags, and away from prying eyes. Or, worse, still, in gutters, in full view, past the point of caring about prying eyes.

But Dean? he shouldn't be drinking alone. And while there was nothing that the woman could do to him of lasting harm, Castiel imagined this fell under what she'd meant about watching him and keeping him safe from harm..

Silently, he dropped in into the seat next to Dean. "You are missing the beer."

Dean Winchester has posed:
While most gravitate to crowds, lately Dean has longed for silence and solitude. He'd promised Sam he wouldn't take off again. He wasn't sure whether this counted or not. With Fred and Jo hanging around their apartment as of late, he finds solace here. In the car. There's no judgment there. Baby would never judge.

And so he sits in the driver seat. Drinking.

The bottle touches his lips again and as the liquor meets it, a voice cuts into his thoughts. His hands turn to fists. His head snaps to the side and he begins to cough hard around the whiskey. But even as he'd aimed to enter fight or flight mode, he eases when it's just the angel. Again.

The coughing resumes for several moments. Until he clears Dean clears his throat and levels the bottle once again. "Cas," the gruffness of his voice mirrors the coughing around the fluid in his mouth. "Geez! Don't do that!" he reprimands. "You can't do that! Not when someone is--no. Just never do that." Pop in to terrify human subjects.

He rubs the back of his neck and sets the bottle down. "I'm not missing the beer. I skipped over it." He attempts a sweet saccharine smile.

Castiel has posed:
Castiel's features are a gruff inquiry as he regards the older brother. "It is not a boilermaker without the beer." Always with his odd way of stating, not asking. Rarely asking. But his words could be taken as both, as it's clear he's not following why Dean would skip the beer.

The moment passes, though, as his brows knit together, Castiel watching Dean. Taking in the smile that is not a smile - though it's unclear if that is lost upon him. "You should not drink alone. I said I would watch. I was remiss before. I am not now. I do not understand. What is it I am not to do?"

Only at the end, after his string of small, staccato observances, and even then only after a pause, does the man tilt his head in inquiry. Only, he tilts a smidge further than most would, and the exageration of the gesture leaves him looking like a farce of himself. At least his hands aren't pushed into his pockets.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Green eyes squint with obvious irritation, "I'm not having a boilermaker. I'm drink whiskey. Neat." Or sloppily as the case may be. Drinking whiskey out of a bottle is already challenging. Dean's lips curve downwards at the assertion of watching him. But even the remission earns a sharp furrowing of Winchester-the-elder's eyebrows. His lips part, curl backwards, and he tries to find words. Instead he manages a single one: "What?!"

The bottle gets set on the seat between them. And for once, Dean wishes the Impala wasn't all benches and instead consisted of independent chairs. His bottle is just left there beside the box as he twists to face the angel. "You can't just sneak up on people like that! We are living lives! I could've lost the whole freakin' bottle!" And if he seems irritated now, that's a fraction of the irritation he'd feel at that measure of loss. "Announcement. Something." At least he was given personal space. That is at least a bonus.

"Seriously, Cas. We need to talk about your people skills."

There's a long pause and he casts another long look at the angel. "What are you doing here anyways, angel boy? Didn't slay any ghosts. Not dealing with demons," although the box would suggest other plans.

Castiel has posed:
Dean is regarded clamly, the angel's head tilted at that odd too-far angle until Dean reaches to put the bottle between them. Castiel sitting up straighter, then, allowing a more natural pose of the body, sitting beside the brother the way any other human might. But for the fact that Cas isn't human. Not in the strictest of senses. Much as he's not strictly an angel anymore either.

Semantics. They'll wear you down.

"I did not sneak. I appeared. You were alone and you should not be." Not that Cas explains that statement.

He reaches for the bottle with his right hand, takinng it with an ease borne of the body's memory of such a thing. "This will eat right through your gut," he murmurs, the gravelly tones of his voice forming a smile that doesn't reach his lips. The bottle does, though, Castiel taking a worthy swig of the stuff and holding the bottle out for Dean to take from him. Again, a gesture too smooth and practiced to speak of it being the angel.

When the thing is taken from him, Cas 'relaxes' again, slightly less stiff than when he first settled down beside Dean, but not quite at ease. Somewhere between. It's easier to be near than his usual motionless ponder.

"You should not be alone. I made a promise."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean nods approvingly when Castiel has a drink of the whiskey. But the comment has him stiffening considerably. "What do you mean I shouldn't be alone?" He shoots Cas one of the brother-dad looks typically reserved for Sam--an expression that suggests with a simple pull of his lips that the suggestions is absurd.

"I'm a big boy, Cas. I can sit alone. Hell, I've been sitting alone since I was... what? Six?" His eyebrows knit together tighter. "I can take care of myself. Been doing it for twenty years already. Why stop now?" A single brow lifts higher than the other.

But the remark about being alone earns Castiel another narrowing of green eyes and a skeptical sniff. "Whatever man. Alone doesn't mean lonely." His lips purse at that, and for a moment it looks as if he may be considering something further, but opts to remain silent on his other thoughts, holding them to himself.

Castiel has posed:
His answer is simple. Ever so simple. Just a calm exhalation of breath with words that float upon it. Dean asks: Why stop now? And Castiel merely answers: "You do not need to be alone anymore."

It isn't a judgement. Or a statement of Dean's capabilities. Merely simple observation of fact. That was then. This is now.

He holds out his hand for the bottle. "Lonely is not dangerous."

Dean Winchester has posed:
The statement earns a pointed look from Dean. Open cynicism touches each marker of his expression and even finds presence in the chuff of air he emits in a near-laugh. "Dude," the word weighs with the cold reality that the need continues. His lips quirk at the edges, "I'm fine," it's a lie. He hasn't been fine for the better part of five years. Or longer. But the paradox remains even in the lie. He's not fine. But it's fine in the not-fine he is.

And in a way, the normality of not being okay becomes its own normative surreality.

The bottle is easily relinquished to the angel. /Lonely is not dangerous/. "Then why worry about it? And why not let me just be alone?" His jaw tightens. The memory of Zachariah's interference has laid fresh on his mind as of late. He can't help but wonder whether Cas knows anything of that encounter.

Lonely was dangerous.

He knows that. He was fourteen and it became so obvious. But Sam needed him. His ten year old brother needed him. The reminder brought him from the edge. His lips twist to the side. "I'm not in any danger," he finally observes. "Not now."

Castiel has posed:
Ah. Semantics. They'll get you every time.

Castiel's fingers close about the neck of the bottle and he takes another easy swig, this time holding the thing to himself as he contemplates. Not quite relaxed, but not quite stone either. "Lonely can be fixed," he says after a long, thoughtful pause. Something of him vulnerable in the moment he says it. A body memory, perhaps? A rare moment of clarity on the human condition? "Alone. You are alone. Even now, you are alone. It is dangerous."

All too soon that odd, stilted lilt of speech. Places where his nature divine and nature mundane grate upon one another and fall short.

Another swig, and the bottle is offered back, all with a piercing look at Dean. "You are in the most danger now."

He should know. He wears a vessel that once was where Dean is now. Oh, circumstances were different. And the body was not a Hunter. But he was alone. Bereft of what held him to this time and place. It was too easy for the vessel to wish to let go. And an act of compassion for the angel to take him for himself. Lonely you could fix, but alone? You could be in a field of thousands, and still be alone.

Alone was dangerous.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The thought of being alone earns Castiel a long look. And in it, the swirl of thoughts behind Dean's eyes speak to the chaos inside his mind. He's been alone a long time. Even with his brother he acted somewhere between sibling and parent. Between peer and caregiver. He scarcely remembers a time when he wasn't negotiating those roles. Except when Mom was still alive.

Dean banishes the chaos to the back of his mind, away from the thoughts that bubble to the surface. His eyes steel. His jaw tightens. Everything about him locks it down once again. "I'm not alone, I have Sam," Dean challenges with a smug near-smirk. He's ready to be pushed on that point.

He takes the bottle again and brings it to his lips to take a long drink. "I'm not in danger. I'm in my car. In the middle of," a Crossroads, "nowhere. No reports of strange stuff going on here. No reason to think anything will happen." The box beside his leg though hasn't been forgotten.

Castiel has posed:
Castiel's gaze remains upon Dean. Piercing, but calm. "You lie well. But you lie. Sam has you."

It's not *quite* true. Cas has seen them together. Sam cares deeply for his brother. Dean isn't entirely alone. He just falls short of explaining it.

The woman. She'd made it make sense. Something about how Dean didn't let people in. Walls. Had she mentioned walls? Castiel could picture them in his mind, though. Dean put up walls. There. That was the thing of it. Even Sam only got partway in.

"You are at a Crossroads." Castiel gives a slow incline of head to that fact. "You have marks upon you." There. If it was in doubt prior, it isn't now. Castiel knows. At least of some of it. How much the angel is not saying. But some.

"The trap was wise."

Dean Winchester has posed:
"I just want to have a conversation with the son of a bitch that owns my soul," Dean states matter-of-factly. "Well. Will own my soul," because he's not dead yet, near as he can tell. "Unless your presence is some kind of purgatory intended to annoy me into purification." His eyebrows lift at that and he brings the liquor to his lips again.

After a few solid swallows, he sets the bottle on the bench again. It's his pacifier. His comforter. Ever present.

The silence grows between them, and he observes to the field in front of him rather than Castiel. "I do fine alone." The fact is left to settle between them. "I raised my brother virtually alone." His head tilts slightly, "Hell, I raised myself alone." His palms press into the bench on either side of him, stretching by way of flattening. "I kept us alive and surviving by doing what had to be done. I mostly acted alone in that. We needed food and I figured out how to make it happen." His lips purse. "Sam died and I dealt with that alone. I took a deal alone." His jaw begins to work around his thoughts.

The information comes slowly. But it's mostly honest. Unusually honest.

"Where were you lot when all of that happened? When I found out my brother was destined to Hell because of some ploy by a demon when he was a baby? What about when I was being tortured for a year in the ocean's waves?"

His eyebrows lift and he reaches for the bottle again. "Fine. I am alone," he finally agrees. "But I can handle it. It's not dangerous. It's my reality. And has been for most of my life."

Castiel has posed:
Castiel takes up the bottle - it's his turn after all - the gesture a thoughtless one. One merely borne of the moment. "That would not be a wise decision, Dean. Not alone." The man's voice rumbles softly as he speaks; silences as he takes a swig. "You should never had taken a deal." Still with that soft rumble of voice.

"There are answers, Dean. You will not like them." Castiel takes another swig and offers the bottle back to Dean without comment. "The question is, what will you do with the truth once you have it?"

So much of the why of how he came to be here, wearing this vessel - so much of it wasn't pretty. So much of it smacked of crushing ants in the dirt. There weren't answers the Hunter beside him would like. And yet? Yet he offered them. Some at least. Some things he was not ready to share... May never be ready to share.

Dean Winchester has posed:
/You should never have taken a deal/. "Yeah, well," Dean's lips quirk into a self-deprecating smirk, "I wasn't going to let my twelve year old brother rot in hell." His palm rubs against his chin and then reaches out to accept the bottle again. "I know heaven, hell, and everything in between is all up in our business. But when Mom died, and Dad became Dad," his eyes drift back to the space in front of them while he takes a swig of liquor to bleach this from his mind, "I did freakin' everything for that kid. Do you know what it is to pour your heart and soul into another person?" He turns his head to study Castiel a few beats. "Well I do. And at sixteen I wasn't going to let him go to suffer... because what--some demon gave him demon's blood as a freaking baby?"

He inhales a long breath and turns back to face forward, offering the bottle towards Castiel as he does so. "And I'm here to talk to Crowley about the new deal." The change that had weighed so heavily on him for some time. "I'm not going to be some demon's bitch anymore. I don't do that anymore. If he wants to kill me for it?W ell, then I'm dead."

He rubs his eyes and then looks back towards Castiel at the mention of answers. "Truth doesn't scare me, Cas," he observes. "I am who I am. No one can make me concede anything I don't want to give."

Castiel has posed:
The bottle is taken back with a nod of thanks. That the body remembers. That he's seen other humans do when he's been in the establishments called bars. Some, at least. Some remember to nod when they are greeted, or noticed, or when a drink is shared. It's a human thing to do, and he's learning it.

"You know you can not save Sam," Castiel begins. "Not alone." His words are oddly soft. Oddly.. of normal cadence compared to things past of the man. Still that low gravel rumble of sound, but nothing of the stilt and pause he's so often given before.

"I know, Dean. I know. You keep asking why I walk among you. You are why. Your brother is why." A long swallow of the whiskey is downed, the angel wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Only his 'ah..' is delayed. Just that half beat off of normal. "What is it like to pour your heart and soul into another."

The bottle is handed out for Dean to take. "I do not - have not had - a soul. We are of Grace. First set upon by the Lord's hand. Made not only in His image, but a reflection of His Light. And yet? I walk with you. I have been poured."

Dean Winchester has posed:
"Oh, come on, Angel Boy," Dean says lowly as he takes the bottle. "Don't remember much about my Mom, but she definitely told me I could do anything when I grew up." His head turns to watch Castiel. "And that's what I wanna do: save Sam." Of that he's decided. "I'll have done one decent thing in my life if I can get him grown, independent, and..." he actually smirks at the last on the list, "well adjusted." Dean Winchester is definitely NOT well-adjusted.

"I parented before I was an adult. That's all I'm saying. And it changes a person. It makes them sew into something more than themselves." He actually laughs, "I'm not saying I'm a saint. I'm a selfish son of a bitch, but where Sammy is concerned? It changes everything. All the time. He's more than my flesh and blood. He's a part of me."

He takes another swig of the liquor. "What do you mean we're the reason? We're just dudes, man. Just normal dudes." But he doesn't even buy it. Not knowing what he already knows. "Why does Michael even want to wear me? I mean," he pats the side of his face, "I know I'm so gosh-damned pretty, but somehow I don't think you angels even take notice." He pats his stomach, "Maybe the strong stomach. I hold my liquor. And my greasy food. No heartburn. Nothing."

His lips quirk though at the last. "Why are you here, Cas? What is it about Sam and I that has your attention?"

Castiel has posed:
There's a grunt of sound from the angel that could be a laugh. It's short and aborted, though. Not quite derisive, but in the neighbourhood.. "So many questions. One simple answer, really."

His gaze casts over towards Dean, then back out the Impala's front window. "The only way to save Sam is to lose yourself. Michael will not allow that."

He sits quietly for some time, lips pressing together into a thin line. The rest of him still and silent.

"What do you know of the Seven Seals?" It's a question, not an answer. But that seems to be the way with this one. One step forward, unfathomable questions back. It's always something though. If you listen long enough, you can almost see the trees along the horizon..

Dean Winchester has posed:
A lot of silence falls the space between them. Dean rides the silence like a wave, falling victim to it as he watches the world outside the window. His fingers grasp the bottle tighter and he takes another long gulp. Drinking alone probably doesn't prepare him for a Crossroads conversation, and it definitely doesn't help with this one either.

"I'm pretty sure I'm already lost," he counters lowly. With a faint frown, he adds, "Why won't Michael allow that? I still have free will in this, don't I?"

The last question has his head turn back to Michael. His jaw tightens. His hands clench. "Like... the Apocalypse?"

Castiel has posed:
"Free will," Castiel intones. "It isn't what you think. You have less of it than you think, young Dean Winchester." He's utterly, and terrifyingly calm about the matter as he speaks of it.

"Some vessels are chosen. Others are convenient. Some.. are made. You have been and ever shall be Michael's vessel. In all the writings that come to this moment, you have ever been that vessel."

The near lyrical cadence of his voice in contemplation is suddenly cut with a gravelly bark of, "Yes, the Apocalypse you idiot. Who raised you to be a Hunter anyway? Seals. Signs. Oaths. All will be broken." His irritation ends in a snort. "You all think them fairy tales. What did you think the Prophets saw?"

Gentler, then, "Yes. That Apocalypse. It is time. Soon."

Dean Winchester has posed:
A long pause follows Castiel's words. The irritation meets outright sassiness. "Cas, if you keep using all of these terms of endearment, it's going to start going to my head," Dean's smile turns downright saccharine. "So sweet it makes my teeth hurt and I'm going to have to visit a dentist."

But sassiness aside, he scratches his head. "My Dad trained us to be hunters," John didn't raise them. Dean and Sam both know he was too busy hunting to raise them. But he certainly spent time together training them to be more effective at killing things the go bump in the night.

"I get a say in my life. No one tells me what I can and can't do. I have choices. I make choices. And when push comes to shove, time and again, I choose Sam." Implicitly he will always choose Sam.

He sits up straighter at the mention of the Apocalypse. "How? What's going to happen?"

Castiel has posed:
Castiel holds his hand out for the bottle. "Did it ever occur to you that's exactly how you will be had? Through Sam?"

The rest he lets sit between them in silence. So much more he could say, but that one small bit, that tiny ever so obvious bit - that's what Dean needs to see. If Dean wishes to be free - to be truly free of this Fate - then there is the choice. The only free will the man actually has: Chose for... or against.. Sam.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's gaze hardens. His eyes focus on an inane spot outside; a place of no significance, but it grounds him in the moment. "Are you," his voice cracks, it's hard to even form this sentence, "saying that Sam is my weak spot?"

With the bottle in his hand, the drivers door opens. Dean slides out and it slams behind him. There's little question he has a flare for the dramatic. "You know what? Screw you. You and your kind doesn't know me or my life. We don't believe in fate. I wasn't fated to become a hunter. I wasn't fated to sell my soul to keep Sam safe. I wasn't fate to end up tortured for a year. None of that was fate." He paces around the car towards the back of the trunk.

"No one made me do those things. I saw the options. I made a choice."

Castiel has posed:
Castiel lets Dean have his moment, watching the man get out of the car and throw.. for all intents and purposes, a hissy fit in the middle of the road. It's a hard truth, and one the angel can't help him accept. Only help him through. But it pains him nonetheless.

"We all think we're making choices," the angel says with some insight into his own path. Never quite certain if it was a matter of falling.. or being pushed.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"Yeah?!" Dean takes a long drink of the booze. "Well if this is fucking fate," he's surpassed irritation and drifted into anger, "then you angelic types are real dickwad sons of bitches!" His chin turns up towards the sky. "Do you know what I did to keep us alive?! I was a kid, Cas. A kid! I was a kid raising a kid--finding anyway to put food on that damned table! If that's part of some damned messed up plan, then you folks are downright sadistic."

He finally sits down on the hood of the car. "If I haven't been making choices than someone really fucking hates Sam and me. Because no one should go through that bullshit. Dealing with bullshit is fine when you choose to, when you get a say. But if it's all decided ahead? Yeah, that's a huge problem."

Castiel has posed:
Castiel sits back, watching Dean, that odd, nearly broken light in the blue of his eyes. None of this is new to him. Perhaps not all of it. Perhaps not all equated to Dean. But the stories are old. He's seen them play out over time incomprehensible. It's only been lately that these have been on his radar. And of the two, Dean is... Not the easier of the two to crack. He certainly isn't. But not the harder one either.

Dean said it: Sam was his weakness.

Heaven's answer Wasn't one Dean would like. Not that Sam didn't have his own role to play if towers crumbled they was they were foreseen.

"I told you. You would not like the truth." It isn't an apology. It just sounds like one.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's fingers rake through his hair. There's a long silent pause following the non-apology. "You can't tell me that someone up there wanted me to pull all of this bullshit?" He blinks owlishly while his brain attempts to process the information he's been given.

"I decide my life. No one else. Not angels. Not demons. Not even my Dad. I choose what I am, who I am, and what I want to be," his voice has become dangerously quiet.

He lays across the hood of the car--bottle of liquor in one hand, keys in the other. His eyes lid and he just envisions waking up. "Is this the truth then? Heaven meant for me to raise Sam? I've been purposed to let Michael just wear me. For the Apocalypse? Because that sounds like a raw deal to me."

Castiel has posed:
What can Castiel say? That Dean's exactly right? That the fewer options Dean thinks he has, the easier he is to manipulate? To take? That every step along the way, the man has been making non-choices. Did he even understand how these things worked? How very much humans were pawns in the greater scheme of things? Very literally.. playthings?

"I tried to tell you before. You and Sam."

He can only agree, though, that odd gentleness in his tones and eyes, even reaching so far as the relaxed slump of the man in the Impala's front seat. "You asked why I chose this path. I decided you did not have to be. We do not Fall lightly, Dean. Consider the worth of that."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Across the hood of the car, Dean grows despondent. Not that the nuances of mood are easy to catch, especially when each of them comes out as irritation. "I didn't have to be... what? A pawn? Michael's patsy? Alone?"

His eyes peel open and he stares at Castiel. "Look Cas, I'm not going to let Michael wear me if I can at all help it. Alright? It's not who I am. Been there done that one the possession front. Bought the frigging t-shirt," he tugs the collar of his shirt to expose the still raw anti possession tattoo embedded in his flesh. I don't want anyone else swimming through my mind."

Castiel has posed:
Castiel remains a calm stillness in the front seat of the Impala, staring bback at Dean through the windshield. "You truly believe you have a choice." It's a statement that comes with the same odd gentleness this conversation keeps throwing him into.

The tattoo is regarded. The man almost shrugs. It's really a gesture that speaks of straightening shoulders. Or an errant breeze. Or anything but a shrug, and yet? The small movement of trenchcoat, such as it is, across the line of his shoulderblades speaks volumes of shrug. Negligence even. As though there's a quaintness to what Dean believes of the mark upon his flesh.

"Michael," Castiel informs, "Is not a demon. And you will relent." There's a firm finality to his words. Whatever Dean believes, it's clear the angel has other thoughts.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"Yeah, screw that. I do have a choice," Dean pouts as he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a long drink of the booze. His eyes drift closed. The notion that another Dad is somewhere pulling the strings makes him ill.

His lips purse and he sucks on the inside of his cheek. John had molded his sons in his image with one taking to it more than the other. "I do what I want." He groans loudly, a sound that echoes through the Crossroads. "Screw you and your sort. You think there's no free will, why the hell are you on earth, Angel boy?"

Crowley has posed:
Suddenly there's a man leaning against the driver's side door of the Impala. The slightly portly gentleman in the black suit slides his hands into the pockets of his equally black trenchcoat and offers a cynical half-smile up at the sky. "Well, well," he purrs. "I //thought// I smelled the rancid stench of a chicken-winged harp strummer hovering about you, Squirrel. What's this moron on about, now? You look positively dreadful. Guess you're learning the Heavenly Hosts tend to be the hosts of the worst party in the cosmos. Course a little thought would have told you that."

He clucks his tongue mornfully, and adds, "I mean. Just //look// what a mess they went and made out of Beltane. Why the Hell //are// you on Earth, Angel Boy? Because you're certainly not wanted."

Castiel has posed:
This inside the car bit - it was already getting old when Crowley shows up.. One minute in the passenger seat; the next outside, next to the passenger door. Leaving Dean a dangling thought between them. One in black. One in tan.

"Crowley." The singular word uttered with no particular intonation, and yet? It carries the weight of disgust with it. "You weren't invited." Even if they are sitting at the Crossroads, complete with demon trap, and a well on the way to soused Dean.. who had just said he wanted to talk to the smarmy thing. It wasn't *quite* a summoning ritual, but demons weren't all that well known for observing all the nicities of such things.

Loopholes - those were the forte of Crowley's ilk.

Blue eyes rest uneasily upon the demon, the only thing in motion of the man. Castiel otherwise stilled to a fault.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"Crowley," Dean greets to the night air. His head lulls to one side and then the other, looking at the proverbial demon and angel on his shoulders. "It's like a bad joke," he mutters to himself. He finally presses himself up to a seated position.

His eyebrows lift and he groans again, this time more a product of being stuck between a rock and a hard place. "Crowley, Cas, Cas, Crowley," he makes introductions even if it's not necessary. "Cas was explaining to me how I have no free will. How I've never had it, and that the complete and total suckage that my life has become is by design. Not choices. Design."

He smirks as he notes, "Means that you were destined to show up in our house, I was supposed to take a death deal, and we're just cosmically linked." He winks at Crowley. "Bet you love that one." His head turns towards Cas, "What I don't get is why you're not with them then? If everything is already decided, then why leave? Like, obviously you can't change anything if we're all being railroaded with no choice."

Crowley has posed:
"Oh, we know each other," Crowley tells Dean, bored, as he offers introductions.

The demon then decides to answer Castiel's comment as he waves a hand expansively over the Crossroads. "I don't need an invitation to my own domain, Castiel. It's implicit in the title. King. Crossroads. Crossroads, King. Nor do I need an invitation to visit someone who is under contract, as Dean Winchester most assuredly is. In fact, by the Rules you're so fond of, //I// don't need permission to visit any human, so long as they want something badly enough to possibly make a deal. You think we wait around for a summons in the modern era? Theatre! My sales team is a //mite// more proactive than that, thank you."

The uneasiness in Castiel's eyes sparks a bit of smugness in the eyes, and a gentle uptick to his smile.

Then he listens to what Castiel's been doing and snorts. "Don't take it to heart, Squirrel. I guarantee you it was my choices that brought me to help your precious baby brother that night. And it was the //choices// of angels like him who said-- little kid got tainted blood against his will? Gotta go to Hell. Thems the rules."

He snorts again. "He's telling you all this because he's not on your side. Angels only know how to follow orders, and they desperately want to think everything and everyone else follows some sort of orders as well. It justifies their //choice// to march in lockstep with one another like a bunch of feathery Nazis. And //this// one. Well. He's the most loyal of them all. He's trying to depress you into complying with their nonsense. Don't let him get to you."

Castiel has posed:
Much like Crowley, Castiel is quick to point out, "We've had the displeasure before." His own visage darkening, the uneasiness drifting into something more settled as the first volley is lain down by his opponent, and the bare-bones assemblage of rules thrown on the table - or, as in this case, the hood of the Impala.

As far as angels on shoulders go, Castiel is an unlikely one.

The angel shoots a glance at Dean. He's nothing but motionless still. Only his eyes and mouth betray more. "Not what I said at all. If that were true, I would not be here, you idiot." A thread of irritation to his tones, though it's uncertain if its root cause is Dean or Crowley, as both seem to have gotten under his skin. "I don't have time to argue semantics with you. Not with this.."

His gaze is cast upon Crowley now, "..filth here. More lies? Your kind always misunderstood. You look at me, and you still misunderstand. Arrogance is a failing. You should have learned that at your master's knee."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Crowley draws attention to the many choices that have brought Dean to this place in his life. Dean's head lulls to the side. "Yeah, seriously. What jerk would put a twelve year old--a /twelve year old/ in hell?! It's heartless. Cold. And Alistair," he visibly shudders. "It wasn't okay. It isn't okay," he has another long drink of the liquor.

Dean points towards Crowley with his thumb, "He has a point, I //am// his bitch," he nods slightly while the effect of the liquor takes greater hold. A lazy smiles pulls the edges of his lips higher, "Which reminds me," and then with a low bellow full of feigned magnanimity he adds, "oh Crowley, the great and powerful," like someone would declare the Wizard of Oz great and powerful, "what task do you have for me now that I finished the last?" but something hangs at the end as Dean implies the silent addition //you son of a bitch//. He forces a sweet smile. And proceeds to take a long swig of the amber booze. After he swallows he holds the bottle up--a silent offering for either the angel or the demon to take a drink.

Even tasks fall to the wayside at the last. Green eyes turn upwards and he focuses on his feet at the end of the car. "What. I don't think this is semantics, Cas. I think this is... what's the word for literal meaning," words are hard, especially when becoming increasingly intoxicated. "Ah-ha! Literal. Definitions." The world is spinning. He lays back down against the Impala.

Crowley has posed:
"Arrogance is a prerequisite for career advancement in my line of work," Crowley rebutts airily. And then he tilts his head slowly. Noticing //something// for the very first time.

He leans forward and...//smells// Castiel. He just takes this long whiff.

And then?

He starts to roar with laughter. He just doubles over and //cackles//. He holds up one finger to Dean, even as the Hunter demands to know what his next task is. Apparently his next task is //wait//. While he chortles.He plants his backside against the Imapla to support him while the deep belly laughs flow out of him. He actually has to wipe a few mirth-filled tears away.

"You've //fallen//?" he demands, losing his mind. "Castiel, loyal soldier, the unyielding, the unbending, the one who stands at the gates and can't be made to laugh, cast down, all but cut off? Did you steal that bit of grace you're clinging to, or was it a pity present?"

This question causes him to laugh uproariously again, before he manages to gasp out the words: "Filth? You should watch your mouth, we're //practically cousins now!//"

Dean asks what his task is and he says, "I was going to ask you to just kill Castiel, because that might have done the trick but now...Useless but //so funny.// Now I'll have to think of something else I suppose."

He finally wipes his eyes, shoulders still shaking. "Best laugh I've had in over a century. Ahhhhh."

Castiel has posed:
Dean is treated to a stern look. "You are not helping yourself." Not matters. Yourself. Though there's a semantical difference for you. "You are too.." Here his words fail. He's seen it. The vessel has memories of it. But the angel can't quite place the colloquialism. Another failing of the distance the angelic Choir has put between themselves and humanity for millenia.

In that, Crowley and his kind have the right of it. You can't move what you don't understand. And that was the thing that had sent Castiel down the path that had him here, a stern sentinel to one side of a vintage Impala, hissing frustrations at a charge who seemed hellbent on prostrating himself to a demon out of sheer idiocy and stubbornness.

He doesn't finish his thought, though. Crowley a drag upon his consciousness that has him regarding the other with something of a glare. Head pulled forward ever so slightly so that he's a hunch in his trenchcoat. A parody of every detective movie there ever was. Give him a drawl, and he could be Columbo.

"You presume too much, Pittance. I am what I always was."
He remains counterpoint to the demon. Where Crowley shakes and laughs, Castiel is unyielding. Too much his nature. Not yet a total embrace of his choice.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"...did you just //smell// him?" Dean arches a wry eyebrow towards Crowley. His disgust is palpable. "You can't just go around smelling people?" His lips hitch up on one side into a lopsided smirk, "Or... is that just a thing your kind does?"

But then Castiel gives him /that/ look, causing Dean to stare openly at the angel. "What. What am I, Cas? Drunk?" His eyebrows lift. "Arrogant? Smug? Damaged? Hardened? Angry? Irritated? Poorly-adjusted? Damaged? Ornery? A pawn? Meat suit? Patsy? Prom dress? Slutty?" His eyes narrow slightly. "Please. Finish the thought. I'll wait." His eyes narrow into slits. "I'm sure we can, the three of us, come up with a longer list. Hell, if you need more, I'm sure John Winchester would have a list of his own."

Speaking of. He reaches into his holster and eyes the runes along the new weapon in his grasp. "Either of you know anything about this?" Sam might've looked at the runes, but there's curiosity that follows The Colt.

Crowley has posed:
Crowley just grins, wolflike, at Castiel's protests, though he doesn't wind up set off on another round of laughter. Dark eyes still reflect mirth, which only turns up as Dean starts calling himself a whole host of names.

"Hey. No slut-shaming," Crowley purrs. "I'm a sex positive crossroads demon."

Though weirdly, briefly, frustration crosses over his features for about half a second. Frustration, and a half shake of his head.

"As to //that//...a little something your father stole from one of my caches," Crowley says, about the Colt, turning serious. "It can kill any supernatural creature, Squirrel. There are only six bullets in all the world, so be careful who you aim it at. You could kill Alistair with that gun. Or Azazel. Which would be damned useful. You could kill the alpha vampire. An angel too, though don't waste that on //him// now." He gestures back to Castiel.

And then he narrows his eyes. And turns serious again. "What //is// your interest with Dean anyway?"

Castiel has posed:
He's a bristle of irritation now, even if it shows only in the small pulse of vein at the base of his neck, and the snap in the blue of his eyes. And his voice. Castiel's tone's taking on a grating edge as he growls at Crowley, "Wouldn't you like to know."

Always with the statements. Still stumbling over the human affectation of voice liftinng intonation; questions. Enamoured, it would seem, with the obvious.

The demon not earning all of his frustrations, though. Dean's litany of shames earning a biting, "Yes" from the man. "All of it. Get off your sorry ass and quit the wallowing." He'd never held truck with this sort of thing in the past, and he didn't understand it any better now. For all that Dean had said and shared, //this// was not what Castiel had expected of him. The young Hunter practically throwing himself at the enemy. Giving them the Queen in a move even the most base pawn wouldn't take.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"Well that's grand. Sex-positive. Good to know that you have an opinion. And maybe that's why you like me so much. Didn't say there was anything wrong with being slutty either. Just that I am. Slutty," Dean's lips edge into a mirthless smile. It's practiced, but not remotely convincing.

He turns THE Colt in his grasp and actually grins. Something to kill Alistair. Azazel. But only six bullets. That's not ideal, but at least he knows that it's worth having. "So Dad stole this from you?" he actually laughs. "That's embarrassing. For you. Surprised he didn't try to kill you with it." No, he tried to kill Sam. Dean's smile, fake as it is, falters. Entirely. Utterly. He takes another swig of the liquor.

Dean's head turns to consider Castiel. "And do what, exactly?" His nose wrinkles irritably. "Stop wallowing to go on a road trip with my brother to kick some sons of bitches back to hell?"

Crowley has posed:
"I wasn't there at the time," Crowley says with a shrug. But he doesn't elaborate on that any longer.

Instead, he tilts his head again, and this time he narrows his eyes thoughtfully. Now he's looking at Castiel and Dean. Really looking. He would like to know, it's clear. He slides his hands back into the pockets of his trenchcoat and just goes still. Much as he likes the sound of his own voice, a lot of salesmanship is listening. And that? He's doing rather keenly now.

He could be any businessman in the world sometimes, when he takes on a certain look. He takes on that look now. Just a guy. A guy with a high-paying job, but just a guy.

Castiel has posed:
Ah.. there's the rub. The demon really doesn't know. For all his arrogant insinuations and careless tossings of words - the demon didn't know. And it was just as apparent to Castiel that Crowley *really* wanted to know why he was here. What it was that would make one of the most steadfast of the Choir turn his back upon the chorus and chose for this.. Well, Dean has better days. There were times when the man was a better specimin of humanity, even if this very moment that appearance was lacking.

And it didn't hurt that Crowley's showing off had told him just a little bit more about that Colt in the boy's hand. Like the tidbit where he wasn't there at the time. Hierarchy and unrest could always be put to good purpose. Demons didn't own that.

"It would be better than this.." Castiel rakes his gaze over Dean, and still fails to come up with better than wallowing. Even with the litany the man himself had provided. "You are better than this," he settles upon. Words now quiet. No longer touched with that sharp edge of irritation and frustration with his charge. Self-imposed charge, but still his charge. "This was not the time."

Though he declines to say what it was not the time for.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Listening yields all the information when Dean is intoxicated. /You are better than this/. "Obviously you don't know me very well," Dean replies. His hand trails to his forehead. It's starting to throb. He lifts the bottle again to look at how much is left. He's had way too many. This would count as a bad day at the bar. A good bartender would've cut him off awhile ago. "Not the time for what, exactly?"

He stares up at the night sky. Something continues to roll over his thoughts from earlier, and finally he gives it words, "Can I save Sam? Can I keep him away from Alistair forever?" It's then that he really feels The Colt in his grasp. "...yes. Yes I can."

Crowley has posed:
"Huh. Never thought I'd see the day where I agreed with Castiel. But. Good."

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. Will it be enough? "I'll give you ten more years just for Alistair's head, Squirrel, and ten more for Azazel's."

It's not //angels// Crowley is sending him out to Hunt. Not the good people of the world. No. He's after demons. Just like when he came after Alistair himself, with the demon knife. But as to why? Well. He's just carrying that one close to his chest isn't he? Just like all the reasons he's already resurrected Dean 9 times instead of just taking him into his domain. "45. Practically ancient for a Hunter," he observes. "The faster the better, though. Some of his most fervent worshippers and suppporters are the souls who used to fear and loathe him the most. So don't count on that to keep Moose out of his clutches. It's possible you all played into some greater scheme of his back in South Dakota. Even if it was a loss for him he's got a real nasty habit of turning those into wins."

Castiel has posed:
"I am what I am," the angel tells Dean with irritating obliqueness. "Put the bottle away, Dean. You are done." He hasn't moved yet, but there's a firm sense of finality to his words. Dean can choose not to put the bottle away, but the bottle //will// be put away.

That or Castiel and.. well, odds were even it could be either Dean or Crowley to champion the cause of the bottle. Either way, there would be discussion of the less than verbal sort, and someone was not going to be happy. Likely several someones.

Crowley is snapped at, "Don't think that ammends for anything." And yet? There is something appealling about the thought of one less demon in the world. Even if there's a niggling thought that accompanies: why does Crowley wish this one removed? Besides the obvious.

When Crowley starts bargaining in terms of years, the angel begins to bristle in earnest, echoes of his true nature beginning to pulse about him. "Enough!" The single word a crack of thunder between them.

Dean Winchester has posed:
None of this is going according to plan. Probably because Dean drank about half the bottle. Or because there's an angel here. Dean's expression sinks when the bottle disappears. Evidently he's done. The Colt is holstered--those are bullets he certainly won't waste.

But then Castiel gets angrier for the offered extension, prompting Dean's eyebrows to lift. And then, with a smirk, he blandly observes, "You'd rather me live to the ripe old age of 26? Wait. 25?" There's a pause and he lifts a hand to wash away the thought. It doesn't matter how old he is.

He turns back to Crowley. While Castiel may try to hamper the 'new deal,' Dean came here with a plan. A terrible plan. A WINCHESTER plan hatched by two brothers with a hunch. And he intends to fulfill it. "Well, I refuse." There's a pause that follows. "May as well take me to Hell now. I know that the moment I refuse to do your bidding you get to escort me back to the place of the damned! SO let's go." He stares at Crowley. "I was hoping you'd try to pimp me out again, but this will do." He yawns lazily and closes his eyes before noting, "I'm waiting."

Crowley has posed:
'Don't think that amends anything,' Castiel says, and Crowley shoots him an incredulous look. "You think I'm out for //redemption//? Now you're just grasping at straws."

None of them are revealing their agenda today, but whatever it is, that's not it. He's not experiencing some sort of heel-face turn. He's not trying to win his way back to humanity or heaven. He's a demon through and through, and rather proud of that fact. It's a weird thing when one's 'best life' actually winds up happening //after// the death and damnation bits...

But that's been Crowley's experience. No. The idea of //redemption// makes his lip curl in real irritation and even disgust, as if someone had offered a venture capitalist a brand new life wearing shared clothes and making peanut butter at some sort of quote-unquote //intentional community//. He has certainly never tried to convince Dean Winchester of his inherent //goodness//.

But then Dean is calling his bluff. Castiel getting furious only produces a snapped, "Stay out of this, you putrid half-dead carrion crow. Winchester's mine. He's //under contract//, which makes him //mine not yours//."

He suddenly leaps onto the hood of the car, comes crawling creepily right over Dean in a terribly suggestive way, rearing up on his hands and knees, grinning like a loon before dipping down until his lips are //just// shy of touching the Hunter's.

"Found the loophole, did you? Clever boy." he murmurs. "Realized I didn't seal the extension with blood or a kiss? Worried I'll //renege//? Well I know you're not keen on dying in a year, and //that//, my boy, //is// sealed in blood. We're talking time atop that, not me bringing you about early. But if you don't trust me, if you insist, I'll be //happy// to give all that internalized homophobia of yours an outlet. We'll seal it with a kiss right now. Twenty years for their heads, and another ten if you can bag Lilith. I'll find two more targets for you and you'll practically have a normal human lifespan. And since I do keep doing you the courtesy of //bringing you back over and over again, I'd say you're getting-- if you'll forgive the turn of phrase-- one //Hell// of a bargain."

Castiel has posed:
One of the two needs to be finished. Now. And of the choices, the easier one to negotiate with is Crowley. Dean at this point a liability to himself. Castiel isn't finished with Crowley yet. Not by any estimation of the word, even if he suspects removing Dean from the equation will shorten the length of any conversation that follows.

Still? The hunter is past reason. Filled with whiskey flavoured courage, and desperation borne of too many years of choices that weren't. And a brother he can't save if he's dead. Even with the loophole, there's enough stupidity in that one that Castiel's choice is easy.

He doesn't need Crowley's showmanship. No dart or wiggle. No parody of his kind, hovering above the hood of the Impala. It's really just a simple step forward, and reaching his palm out to press against Dean's forhead, with a whispered "Shhh.."

Leaving only himself and Crowley awake and cognizant of what happens next.

"I do not waste my time pondering your kind's motives." Which is true. Few, if any, of the angels pondered their unGraced cousins - to use Crowley's quaint geneological terms. He'd be true of some of his ilk, Lucifer taking many with him when he tossed his Grace before the Lord in a fit of pique, declaring himself no more and no less than He Who Is All, refusing to bend, break or bow. There were still some who once heard the Choir who attended upon him.

"I will ask, though, what is your stake in this?" Since they're talking. Or might be.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Pinned between the car and the demon, Dean's eyes widen. Green eyes flash with a whirl of fury and fear all in one, and in a moment, he's fourteen again. Fourteen and powerless. And he can feel it in every vein in his body. And as he stiffens, hardening his resolve, he implicitly knows that Crowley understands what he's doing.

But even in that uncomfortable twitchiness that urges him to reach for The Colt, that has nothing to do with some internalized homophobia like Crowley implies but something altogether different.

John's voice echoes over his mind.

//Be a man//.

Bravado. Pride. Strength. These are the hallmarks of manhood that John tried to impart to his eldest son.

And when Dean can't find any of them in himself, he falls back to his truest survival skill. Lie.

Lie to self.

Lie to others. Fake it until you make it.

And in that moment, Crowley can actually see Dean's chest puff up. He manages an angry smile, something without merriment, joy, or anything warm. It's cold, calculating, and pent with the power of a half bottle of whiskey. "Fuck you." His lips quirk, "Unless that's the idea." There's a pause that follows. "When I get their heads, it'll be because they're evil sons of bitches not to save my own skin. Not for my Dad's revenge. To save people. To save Sam."

His lips part to speak again, "Why do you keep--" but the thought is lost to Castiel's touch. Dean is asleep.

Crowley has posed:
The entity now known as Crowley lets out an annoyed puff of breath as he looks over his shoulder at Castiel, who has put his mark to sleep.

Abruptly he's on top of the car. Sitting there like a sulky child, or a gargoyle, or just someone perching in a place that would annoy the sleeping Winchester. If he can't get him to deal, if he can't maneuver him into position right now, he can at least deface Baby a little bit. He seriously considers using his powers to scratch 'Crowley was here' up there, but he suspects that really //will// inspire Dean Winchester to waste a Colt bullet on him.

But now Castiel wants to talk.

"You show me yours and I'll show you mine, Castiel," he rumbles, and despite the flirtatious language, and the fact that he switches position so that he's draped across the car like a Grecian slave girl, head in his hand and one leg cocked to drape over the other in a mockery of seduction there's nevertheless a serious undercurrent to his words.

"I want to know what //you're// up to just as bad as you want to know what //I// am up to. Perhaps there's room for a bit of a deal over Sleeping Beauty's head over there, but I'm not a cheap date no matter what...well. Most of Truman's Administration...had to say about me."

He waggles his eyebrows, leaving it up to anyone's imagination what he might have had to do with McCarthyism or the Cold War or the cancellation of good old //Leave It To Beaver//.

Castiel has posed:
Now that he's unleashed himself, there's less of the stilted about Castiel. More of the divine. It shows in the sheer immediacy of his stance. The ease with which he holds the vessel to account. "Is that some oblique reference to whose manhood is bigger?" (He can credit the girl outside the Justice League Museum for that little tidbit about humans)

"What am I up to." Castiel takes an liesurely pace to the front of the Impala. Now that Dean is no longer a danger to himself, Castiel's attention can hone down on the more impertinant matter at hand. He might have preferred to glean more from his charge, but this will suffice. "Alright then. What do you know of the Seven Seals?"

His hands have returned to their usual place, tucked neatly, and firmly, into the pockets of his trench coat. The angel waiting patiently to see by what rules Crowley intends to play.

Crowley has posed:
Something passes across Crowley's face, and now he's no longer playing around. He sits up.

"The seals that allow the apocalypse to begin. Some thought breaking them let Lucifer out, but-- in the fun-filled surprise twist-- the blighter's running a bloody nightclub in Manhattan."

He gestures for Castiel to go on. The angel has his attention, that much is clear. He has his attention so much that Crowley's own aspect starts to slip. His eyes burn red, his inner form, a twisted thing the color of blood, somewhat visible, now, to spiritual sight.

In direct contrast to his babbling before, where he dropped information seemingly without thinking, he is guarded now. Dribbles and drops. It //might// lead one to wonder if what he had dropped before were so unintentional after all. Does he make those kinds of mistakes? Or is he far more calculating?

Or is the truth closer to 'a little of both?'

Whatever it is, he's calculating //now//.

Castiel has posed:
Now that he has Crowley's attention, something of a smugness settles over Castiel. The Warrior having no small amount of confidence; the remnants of that settling over him like a mantle. Much as the glow of his power had touched him earlier. "You think that changes matters? That the Fate of the End would hinge upon one mere..miscreant?"

Angels were haughty. Could be. And in this, Castiel held the upper hand. Crowley was a master of words - and the demon was silent. There was power in that, and the angel was not going to waste it.

"How shortsighted."

One can almost hear the resounding echo behind it of //how naive//.

Crowley has posed:
Crowley straight up rolls his eyes.

"Darling, you're scratching your balls in bed. Try to stay focused. I know very well Lucy isn't important to all this. I also know you really have to get off this Fate train. Seriously, it's ridiculous. Fate just encourages you to wail and moan and do nothing. While others have whined about //Fate//, //some// people have been //doing things//. So. You. Here. Seven seals...?"

He waves his hand around, encouraging the angel to go on.

Nothing Castiel has said has produced even the slightest glimmer, even the quietest flicker of anything like surprise. The King of the Crossroads is tense. Indeed, he glances around, spots a streetlight above.

"I can't believe I'm sitting here talking to bloody Castiel in a //trenchcoat// under a //friggin// spotlight."

As if to reflect his ire, the spotlight in question pops, fizzles, and burns out in a shower of sparks. "And getting information in a process that's akin to pulling teeth." He folds his arms, his eyes burning and glowing red in the darkness, with some of his essence all but misting out of there like a pair of twin flames.

Castiel has posed:
If he's amused, the angel doesn't show it. The trenchcoat comment zipping right on past him. Though the spotlight gets a dry, "Theatrics?" and nothing more. The eye-roll is implied. When the thing sputters to an untimely death, Castiel scratches a hand across the back of his neck - clearly a body memory, the gesture at odds with the rest of him. An unconscious act of frustration that doesn't even flicker on the angel's awareness.

"You chose to come here." Which had it's finer points in semantics, as certain things Dean had said and done could technically fall under summoning. Not that Crowley limited himself to such.

"They're breaking." Castiel's hand falls away, and for once he forgets to shove it back into its pocket, letting the thing hang an awkward punctuation at his side, fingers half-curled towards the palm. "They are doing nothing to stop it."

The rest, Castiel is certain Crowley may be privy to. The last? That he's certain Crowley is not.

Crowley has posed:
"They can't break till the righteous man is tormented in Hell, because that is the first." Crowley says coolly. "Something I have spent the last 9 years singlehandedly preventing. There are a dearth of people in the world who are both righteous //and// likely to end up in Hell. In fact, I can only think of //one//."

He gestures expansively. "You want to stop the whole thing? //He// needs to be just a little bit corrupted, and stat. And you can't go //telling// him because then nothing he does will easily fit the bill...it will all fall under 'sacrifices made for the greater good.' He needs to do something so selfish, so dark, that he isn't righteous anymore. Because that is the start. The first Seal is, in fact, in Hell, in //Alistair's// territory, and they need him or someone very like him to break it."

He hops down. "Then there's the matter of the brother, which, thanks to him, I can't touch." Another jerk of the head in Dean's direction. "There are rules binding us. You ever wonder why Alistair or his ilk don't just possess the president and launch the nukes? Because they can't. It takes years of negotiation just to cause a single plane crash. For the most part we can only cause destruction, or take a soul, when someone foolishly leaves us an opening. It would take a human making a mighty big opening to allow, say, a demonic army to sweep across heaven and earth. But what human could do that, and simultaneously be powerful enough to keep a bunch of bloody demons in line?"

He lifts his eyebrows, figuring Castiel can fill in the blanks.

"And now you're telling me the blasted angels want to kick this thing off too?"

He turns his head and he actually spits in disgust. "//Madness//. I thought only our kind went that mad."

Castiel has posed:
It all washes over him. Every single bit of Crowley's exposition and frustration. Right from point A to point B. Not a flicker or a flinch of reaction. And when the demon walks himself to the correct conclusion, there is a long pause of silence as Castiel regards his darker mirrored cousin, before allowing the barest incline of head to the other.

"You asked," he says simply, voice a pitch and a carry to only the two, "Why I Fell."

Crowley has posed:
"I did," Crowley replies. He paces a little bit, agitated still, anger radiating off him. It's not theatre when street lights pop up and down the street. It's his anger unleashing his electrokinesis, sparking all up and down the place.

A rain-tinged wind stirs leaves, brings the smell of ozone. Crowley, against all habit, is pissed off enough to start causing omens right here and now. It's something that is usually only sparked by a demon's //anger//, and what most don't realize is almost all demons are frothing furious all the time. Crowley? Crowley's //happy// most of the time, so he almost never brings them.

But here they are, now.