2672/Peabody's Improbable History

Peabody's Improbable History
Date of Scene:	02 October 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Winifred Burkle, Crowley

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Winifred Burkle has posed:
A crossroads.

It's not the hardest to find outside of New York City, though it does take some maneuvering. It's not an Impala parked outside of city limits at a dirt crossroads. It's - actually - the exact same crossroads that Fred and Dean had their knock-down drag out fight in the middle. It's where Dean drove off and they saw the man Fred now believes is Crowley in the passenger seat of the Impala. This place has a significance.

If Dean is right in thinking that demons are playing strings and messing with the Winchesters, she has a feeling that if she calls the man she's looking for in this place? He won't be able to resist. Curiosity killed the cat, after all.

Her license is still somewhere in the midwest. She got a look at the box that Dean gave her a few days ago that she used to call a demon to save Sam. Not only that, Jo told her what it took and she's not exactly forgetful. Instead of her license, she folds up an old picture and then buries the box. There is no devil's trap, nothing but her own newly etched tattoo that should keep her safe - not even Winchesters. Instead, stubborn, arms crossed and determined, she stands and waits for the King of the Crossroads.

Crowley has posed:
He's right behind her.

"10 points for dramatic flair, Peabody," purrs the low, charming, very British voice behind her. "10 points for sheer audacity."

He circles around her, much like a baracuda, hands clasped thoughtfully behind his back as he step-steps to come directly in front of Winifred Burkle. A mischevious light is in his darkling eye, and he looks her up and down with a smirk of amusement. This is clearly an unexpected development. He finally spreads his hands.

"Are you here to make a deal, or is this a social call? If I'd have known you'd be calling, Winifred Burkle, I'd have baked a cake. Well."

He suddenly snaps his fingers, and now they're standing at a restaurant in what looks like...Morocco. Like actually Morocco, out on the water. "This will have to do I suppose."

His smirk grows juuuuust a tiny bit.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
There is a sudden shiver down Fred's back as she hears the British voice behind her. The posture straightens and she then sees the form of Crowley circle about her. As he stands in front of her, Fred levels her own gaze at him. She's not a people person, she's not a grifter, she's not Angel and she's not the Winchesters. She's just herself and that's all that there will have to be in that moment.

"Twenty points out of what kinda scale?" she replies, trying to keep her voice even as she says it.

Then, something catches up to her. "Peabody?" She can't help but ask. She's never come face to face with Crowley, has no idea of his naming scheme and even if she did, she might not know why he decided to give her this particular petname. It has nothing to do with Winnie or Fred or the Hundred Acre Woods. In other words, it's a singular sort of nickname.

"I think you're smart enough to know that I'm not here to make a deal. And it's not exactly a social call." Her head tilts, still curious. She can't help but ask, "Why a cake? Is it supposed to be a take on angel food cake? A pun or something? Last time I called a demon there wasn't a talk of a cake, so I'm gonna assume that's not a normal thing to bring to a summoning." When nervous she talks a lot. Though, to be honest, when she's not nervous she talks a lot, too.

As he snaps his fingers and she finds herself somewhere else, Fred's arms that are crossed grip herself tighter. A deep inhale is given, an attempt to not freak out in front of a creature she knows will take any weakness and use it against her. This sudden change of environments is not a portal, but it has its similarities. "Where...where are we," she says, words tight.

Crowley has posed:
"The Moroccan Riviera, my dear."

Crowley lifts his eyebrows. A table is all prepared for them. He pulls out a chair and gestures to it. "The chicken bastille is...to die for."

He smirks faintly. Is that a threat? Or is the chicken bastille really that good? A waiter appears and offers white wine. Crowley takes his own seat. Crowley takes it up and swirls it around in his glass, breathes in the aroma, sighs happily. "It's just as well we're talking," he adds. "But no need for me to dominate the conversation. Tell me, Peabody? What did you summon me for?"

He crosses his legs and leans back as he takes a sip. He eyes her over the rim of the glass, adding, "Are you going to try to math me into letting Squirrel go?" She'll get the naming scheme soon enough.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
Will she? Fred isn't the most up to date on references. It's entirely likely that she'll go through the whole conversation not exactly knowing why he's calling everyone by different names.

"Morocco." She repeats their destination even as she takes a seat at the table prepared for them. If anything is ingrained in Fred, it is the ability to make the best of a situation no matter what that situation is. Either the threat or the hunger bypasses Fred as she orders nothing. Instead, the glass of white wine offered is taken, but she doesn't sip it. Much like Persephone in the Underworld, she trusts nothing here.

"You already did," she tells him. Her lack of subtly sometimes comes in handy. "Transporting me to Morocco, if that's even where we really are, isn't really the move of someone who doesn't care about power." That's just point of fact and not something she's savvy enough to keep close to the vest.

"First off, I want my license back. I left it in the last box and it has a bit of sentimental value, but it's all I had at the time." She assumes he knows what she means. It's possible this is a ploy for information, but it's just as likely she assumes he knows and has it.

"And second, who is Squirrel? Dean? No, I've been told you can't let Dean go. That's not what this is about. Honestly? I want to know why you keep getting involved with them. You already had Dean, why show up again?"

Crowley has posed:
"Squirrel is Dean, Moose is Sam, you're Peabody."

Crowley frowns faintly. "Why show up again?" he prompts.

There is a strange moment of hesitation before he twists his hand and draws her license out of his sleeve cuff. He offers it to her between two fingers with the little smirk he nearly always gives when he does something delightful, but there's something about his eyes that says he's not as cavalier as he appears.

"Miss Burkle," he says. "Why don't you assume for a moment I'm not sure precisely what event you're talking about. You do rather talk a lot, and it's easy to get lost in the shuffle. What exactly are you asking me about here?" Food comes, in ridiculous quantities, course after course getting laid out on the table.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
"Moose and Squirrel. That's something my parents talked about. A cartoon, right? What's Peabody?" Apparently Fred was too young to know anything about Rocky and Bullwinkle when it came out.

The license is pulled out of his sleeve cuff. That, at least, means something. He knows what happened at the crossroads. Without any sort of shame, she snatches the license back. Her fingers rub over the scratches on it, the dirt. It's definitely worse for wear, but it is hers and it means something to her.

After a moment, she keeps the license tightly in her hand and looks up at Crowley. She doesn't know if this is a suit he's suddenly wearing for the hell of it. She saw the back of his head and so knows he's been wearing it - at least - for a month. What does that mean for it? "I saw you. At the Crossroads. I didn't know it was you till recently, but Dean talked about making another deal with you to try and save Sam another time."

All the different forms of food slide onto the table in front of her. Fred is very food oriented and she watches them all a bit hungrily. Instead of grabbing at all the dishes, she clutches the license, the plastic digging into her hands and she flicks her eyes back up to Crowley. "You already had him. Why make another deal? Why sacrifice a demon to me after South Dakota?"

Crowley has posed:
"As far as Peabody, Google is your friend. As far as Squirrel, I have my reasons," Crowley says, hitching a shoulder. "And I can't tell you those reasons, Miss Burkle. Other than to say this...//you// ought to make a deal with me to, and not for the reasons I normally pitch to my customers. But as for demons after South Dakota..."

His eyes narrow. "I sent no crossroads demons after South Dakota. Why would I sacrifice one of my employees? That would be insane. Nobody's missing, so I assume you simply exorcised someone. Why do you assume I sent another crossroads demon at all?"

Getting the license, as it happens, does not have anything to do with knowing what's going on. It is, for someone like Crowley, basically a parlor trick to locate an item in time and space, then bring it to his hand through teleportation. He did, after all, just bring them to a beautiful restaurant halfway around the world with a snap of his fingers. A driver's license is nothing. Nothing at all.

He starts to eat, but his expression is growing hard and sour. Unconsciously, members of the restaurant staff begin giving their shared table a very wide berth. He pays them no notice at all.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
As for Google being her friend, Fred's smart enough to not start Googling right in front of Crowley. That'll be something she does later. She can't help but figure out the naming structure. Curiosity is basically built into her.

"I should?" She gives him a look. "What's the pitch you'd give me to make a deal with you, Crowley?" He should know that she knows his name. She practically called for him by it in her summoning. However, she doesn't sound scared or reverent about it. Instead, she watches him, hands folded over her newly retrieved license and watches the man across from her.

Fred is not a slow learner. Sam has been teaching her about hustling pool. She doesn't know how to read people very well, but she knows a situation where she assumes that she has more information than he other person. "Because one was sent to me with a message. And you're King of the Crossroad Demons, aren't you?"

Keep it together Fred, keep it together.

Taking a breath, she looks up at him, determined. "So, it sounds like someone sent one of yours to me as a message to either me or to you." Since she doesn't know who it is, she just lets that linger there.

Crowley has posed:
"Because, Miss Burkle, Sam Winchester isn't the only one Alistair has plans for. He has plans for you too. The demon that brought you two together was one of his. I can protect you."

He shrugs his shoulder. "But I can't just give away protection. There are rules that bind all demons, all angels, all creatures of every kind. Those rules matter a great deal to everything that's going on. I can only protect that which is //mine//, do you understand?"

Of course. Who knows if this all sounds like nonsense to Winifred Burkle. He lifts an eyebrow and gives a cold, sardonic smile. "What was the message? I imagine it probably worked on several different levels, don't you? It usually does, when one is dealing with all the best chess players."

There is no reaction whatsoever to the use of either his name or his title, other than the slightest growth of a smile across his face.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
'Sam Winchester isn't the only one that Alistair has plans for.' Those words freeze Fred. The demon has plans for her. It most likely involves her parents, as they have already been exposed. Perhaps Angel and Wesley are next.

No, the fact of protection over what is his doesn't sound like nonsense to Fred. She knows it very intimately. She would, without hesitation, draw blood from a scared and pleading possessed woman to ensure that Sam survived because she loves him. She would prolong her torture to ensure that Sam was okay. He is under her protection and therefore she would go to extremes for him.

And, also, she knows that Sam would do quite a lot to protect her. Rather than outright dismissing Crowley, she asks, "What're you offering?"

While Fred does not know much about grifting, does not know how to read other people, Crowley's question is met with a curious look. How does he not know? The demon that came to her was a Crossroad's Demon, right? As a leader, shouldn't he know? "Shouldn't you know?" she asks. It's not sardonic, not like his own response. Instead, like always, she is curious. "Do you not know?" There is surprise there. "You who I am, but you didn't know I called a Crossroad's demon before this."

Crowley has posed:
"It is starting to sound like a member of my own organization has turned traitor. Fear not. I will deal with it."

And with that, she asks what he's offering, and he leans back in his seat thoughtfully.

"I have a real problem," he says. "Dean Winchester's contract is about to run out, and I can't let him go to Hell for longer than a few minutes. If I do I'm bound to start torturing him, and for reasons I'm not interested in revealing, that plays into Alistair's plans while screwing with mine. I need him alive and well, my dear, which is why I tried to extend the deal. The rules, you see? But if there is no good reason not to send a Hellhound after him and I fail to, I will be held accountable under those same rules. Lilith or Alistair will be able to claim me for punishment, and that is not my idea of a fine time."

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. He leans forward.

"So. You buy Dean Winchester's contract. That's a base of ten years, keeping him alive. I already made him this offer, but if Alistair dies, if Lilith dies, and if Azazel dies that is thirty more years. Fourty years, Miss Burkle, that I can legally offer you. During which you are mine to resurrect and shelter in Hell. During which you will do more to circumvent their little plan to corrupt Sam Winchester than any of the gutless wonders before you. I offered a version of this to Melinda May and she turned me down. Granted, I only offered her humorless, shrivelled arse ten years. I don't trust her. But you...I believe you have what it takes to think your way through this. I also offered to find him two more useful targets for twenty more years. That is an entire human lifespan. It was generous, but Dean gave me the finger thanks to that black winged chicken he's carrying about on his shoulder these days."

And then he purrs, "You save Dean. You save Sam. You save yourself. And you save everyone who will be hurt should Alistair win."

Winifred Burkle has posed:
Hades and Persephone.

The thought crossed her mind quite a bit from the moment she called Crowley. For awhile, Fred had resisted the food and drink in front of her. The cut of government plastic from her license still presses into her hand deeply as Crowley makes his offer.

The problem that Crowley has is met with disinterest. Demon contacts that are detrimental to him? Good, as far as she's concerned. Let him suffer.

His offer, though? That is not what she was expecting. There is a long silence as she attempts to take this in. She and Sam have been finding a way to solve Dean's contract and with such a depressed timeline it felt impossible. Even an attempt to transfer the contract to John was impossible. Now, though, there seems to be an answer. Her soul.

Fred blinks a few times. "Let me be clear. Dean's contract ends in a year." She knows that in certainty. "If I took his contract, it wouldn't be just that year, at base it'd be a full ten years even without dealing with Alistair or Lilith or Azazael?" The names Alistair and Azazel certainly means something to her. Lilith? No. However, she will attempt to not let that show. She's talking timelines here.

Knowing this deal has been offered to May before this and has been turned down makes her pause. May turned this down, what is she doing even considering it? While she is not accepting just yet, there has been no dismissal. She is certainly considering. Knowing that May turned this deal down, she realizes something. "You're just trying to find someone who will take Dean's contract."

There's a breath. "I'm not saying I won't. But, if I'm going to sell my soul, there's more than Sam and Dean I'd need to be safe. I can put others under your protection?"

Crowley has posed:
"That's correct. Dean would live, and you'd have ten years at baseline," Crowley says. This earns her a measure of respect. She's dickering and asking questions, not just dismissing him out of hand because aahhh! Demoooon!

Someday these people will realize he has the best job in the world, in the best spot of the afterlife in the world, and they'll all thank him for his magnimanity, nobility which has caused him to select them above all others to join his ranks. The ambitious, the clever, the canny.

And of course this other thing he's doing.

"I don't know how much protection some of these others need," he admits in a raspy voice. "Some might be better off without it. Some aren't being lined up for starring roles in the Drama of Suck though."

He spreads his hands, says in an understated way, "Still, I am open to negotiation. What are you thinking?"

Winifred Burkle has posed:
"And for each name off the list, I get ten more years?" Fred wants to know the specifics. She is not person savvy, but equations? That she gets. That makes sense to her.

It is not that Crowley is a demon: she understands that. It's the title that was given to him before and after the incident with Dean in the Crossroad. To her, this is more than just a deal. This is something else.

Finally, she takes a long drink of the white wine the glass that was served for earlier. It's not chilled now, but she doesn't seem to care. If she is going to consider selling her soul to a demon? It's best with some white wine.

"Before we do this..." she looks at him. "I know you won't tell me the truth, but I want to see your expression." She's bad at this, she //knows// how bad she is at this. Still, she has to try. "I called a Crossroads demon a few days ago because Sam needed demon blood. The woman chosen lived in a house that meant something to the Winchesters. She didn't know me, but she knew the Impala. You're saying you had nothing to do with that?"

Crowley has posed:
"No. I don't want Sam Winchester drinking demon blood. I mean. All my people know to watch out for that damned car, but I'd say that memo's getting around to most these days. And if I want to go play mindgames with Dean, I'll just go see him personally. The faster //that// little addiction problem is resolved, the happier I'll be. And that's correct. Assassinate each of these problems, or help the others do so, and I give you ten more years."

He hitches a shoulder, smiling faintly, even a little bitterly. "Not all demons are the same, Miss Burkle. Not all regions of Hell are the same. Not all of us want the same thing. If I'd had a way to take any kind of precaution to stop that? I'd have taken it ages ago. The damned rules stopped me."

He starts in on some of the appetizers, and says, "Which is what tells me she's gone over to Alistair's side. Tell me, where was this house? It will help me identify the soul I need to...have a little discussion with."

Winifred Burkle has posed:
This is a demon. Fred has to keep reminding herself of this. Crowley's matter of fact talk and tone of voice somehow often puts her at ease. The way he talks about Alistair and the rest of Hell sounds genuine. Of course, as she has started to realize, she is not really one to know just //how// genuine someone may be. With demons? She must doubly be on her guard.

There's some silence as she still mulls over the details. "I was taught that a deal that's too good to be true usually is." For some reason she had thought herself still outside of the demon's machinations. Just because she loves Sam doesn't tend to mean that she will be used as anything other than bait. Who is Winifred Burkle to Hell, after all? And as such, she's not sure she even believes that the demons other than Crowley have any designs about her future. "I'd want the Hyperion to be safe. And my parents are off limits to any demon. Ever."

A thought occurs to Fred. She doesn't know how to read people, but she knows equations, balancing. She holds her wine glass and studies the demon in the man suit in front of her. "You're incentivizing me to get rid of your rivals and selling it to me to sound like charity. 'Cause you can't do it yourself. 'Cause of those rules you keep talking about." Her voice is sure of herself, the sort of thing that happens in the spur of moment. A flash of inspiration.

Crowley has posed:
Crowley, by now, is gamely cutting into his food. He takes a bite as Fred lays out her terms, and then as she has her revelation on the nature of salesmanship. "Charity? No. Souls are some of the most precious commodities in the entire dimensional order. And each human gets exactly one of them. You don't go selling them lightly. People can't make billion dollar deals worth more than the one thing I'm asking you to sign over to me. You're very wise, in fact, to be so skeptical, and to negotiate. Most don't. By the time they're sitting across from me, most people are all too willing to fling it at me. I'm finding your company surprisingly enjoyable as a result."

He lifts his eyebrows at her, as if even he is surprised. Perhaps he is. "Intelligence. A rare and precious commodity."

But he doesn't spend too terribly long on the flattery. Nor, surprisingly, does he lie when he says, "I can't guarantee no demon will go near your parents, Fred. I just told you, there are factions. Alistair doesn't care what I want, nor Lilith, nor Azazel. And there are more factions than the two that are currently at war, though some of them are naval-gazers and self-flagelating fools, so they don't really impact matters much. I can promise to send a contingent of my own to watch over them, but even that is dicey. Because, as we've covered...loyalty is //also// a rare and precious commodity. You might want to consider Grangering them."

He lifts his eyebrows again, clearly assuming this pop culture reference will //not// go over her head.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
"I guess I'm lucky 'cause I didn't come here to make a deal." Fred wasn't lying when she said that. Fred rarely lies...she doesn't have the savvy to do it. "Maybe I've got the benefit of a clear head. I'm guessing most people come here 'cause it's their last resort. It's not hard to take something precious from someone desperate." Is she not desperate? Has she not been trying to find a way to save Dean? To stop Sam's addiction? Perhaps, but she didn't come here to sell and so she has a clearer head.

The fact that Crowley can't promise the safety of her parents is a disappointment. She had hoped that she could - at least - get that out of this deal. Saving Dean? That is certainly something. For the panic that has caused the Winchesters it makes only mathematical sense to take the deal. Ten years is far longer than less than one year. They can continue their studies, but without the impossible time crunch. It would mean that she has to trust the Winchesters will be as invested in saving her as they are in saving their own, but that is something she doesn't debate. She knows Sam will do what he can to save her.

Sam. If he knows about this deal, she knows he will freak out. His eyes will go black. He will do whatever he can to fix it. However, this time it won't be because of his brother, it will be her own doing.

"I'm not a witch," Fred says, distractedly to Crowley, showing that she does - at least - get that reference. However, that does give her an idea. "Can you erase them from the supernatural community? A sort of metaphysical witness protection program?"

Crowley has posed:
"I can," Crowley says, and if he looks a bit smug that she's asked, he nevertheless is telling the truth. "Even if I didn't have the skills to do it myself-- and I do-- there are so many witches under contract with me it's not even funny. That's one of the most common asks, you know."

He pauses thoughtfully. "This deal already does include one memory wipe. Alistair cocked it up, so it's sitting unredeemed, and that's not a great thing. Use that how you will, or take a pass on it, it's up to you, but I must resolve it before the new deal can be done." Another bite of the food.

"This," he says, gesturing down at the plate with a fork, "and I'm sorry, I know this negotiation and business deal is all very serious, but you've barely touched your food and this? Is. Fantastic. You really need to just take a bite."

Winifred Burkle has posed:
The deal includes a memory wipe. "Is that...standard?' Fred can't help but ask, curious about that. How many people sell their soul to forget something? To change things? She's sure all of them. There are witches under contract of Crowley that can fix it, can make her parents safer. That, at least, is something.

Hmm. The memory wipe must be done before the new deal? Fred frowns. "It's not possible to hold that wipe and then use it when I wish? As part of the deal, should I take it?" Of course, by this point no one would be discussing a deal to this fine a point if they were not seriously considering taking it. At least, Fred wouldn't.

As for the food, she gives a bit of a shrug and a laugh. "I don't see any pomegranates here, but when we're talking about deals and souls and times, well. I think I'll eat once I know whether or not that means something. Delicious or not."

Crowley has posed:
"Pomegranates? Do you think I'm //Hades//? He's a classless hack with no game! Pah!" Crowley actually really does seem moderately offended by that.

But he recovers quickly. He leans forward. "You can do whatever you want with it. As long as it's accounted for. Do you realize deals like the ones I sell literally alter reality, within a very few limits, for their beneficiaries? Of course, the altered reality cannot ultimately outweigh the strength of the soul selling it. Some souls are also worth more than others, for example. But there are real estate deals less negotiable than this."

His lips curve into a smile, his earlier ire all but forgotten. "So few bother! Refreshing, so refreshing, as I've mentioned. Absolutely delightful."

Winifred Burkle has posed:
"You're a dealmaker from the Underworld," Fred defends herself. "It's an apt metaphor. Plus, I was told you have to kiss people to make deals. That's not what I have to do here, do I?"

"So, I can hold a memory wipe, my parents can be in supernatural witness protection. Dean's contract will be passed to me, but I have a full ten years." She frowns. "Then, I get more years if Azazel, Alistair and Lilith are dealt with. I don't have to personally kill the others, right?" That's a thought that occurs to her suddenly. "How do those years transfer?" Suddenly she realizes that that hasn't been discussed.

A head tilts as Fred studies Crowley. "I didn't come here to delight you." She's sure he knows this by now. "I'm debating doing something that might just mean I'll be tortured for eternity. Altered reality or not."

Crowley has posed:
"You can also sign your name in blood. Most people find that way less enjoyable, but loyalty to your gigantic boyfriend, blah blah blah, I assume you won't want to be taken on the thrill ride that //is// Crowley."

He waggles his eyebrows at her, and leans forward with a smooth curl of a smile. "Though you really ought to. You might gain a bit of an education."

With that bit of creeper flirting complete, he says, "I don't care how they die. If they die, you get more years. So if one target dies, it's 20 years before I send a hell hound after you. If 2 die, it's thirty. And so forth, you're very good at math. Those are your years, and you can't go spreading them about. Dean, meanwhile, won't ever see a hell hound, because you'll have bought, and renewed, his contract. It's a bit like buying out a building with a lease option on it when the lessees cannot continue the lease and cannot exercise their option to buy."

She tells him she didn't come here to delight him, and he just //chuckles//, shoulders shaking. It's a bit of spunk, spark, defiance; he seems to enjoy that as much as everything else. But he feels compelled to say something.

"That's really a dramatic way of putting it, Miss Burkle. Sure, there's a bit of a refining process, but as I'm sure you've learned at the feet of the Dread Pirate Roberts: life is pain. Already. And once you've transformed, you get a new career and a new lease on life. Look at me."

He raises his wine even as he raises his eyebrows. "Do I look like I'm being tortured? No! I'm here, living my best life."

He teleports something else to hand and passes it across the table. A small, rolled up motivational poster. It reads:

ATTITUDE!

It has a lightbulb on it. And then:

'A bright attitude is the right attitude! It is the source of empowerment that can move everyone in the right direction.'

"That one was hanging in my conference room," he says blithely. "But I'll get another. You can have it. Free of charge."

So very magnanimous.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
Loyalty to her gigantic boyfriend. That sticks in her craw for a bit. She knows deep down that Sam would disapprove of this. She knows he'd prefer to offer himself up to save Dean. She knows not only enough of him but of his reactions to Dean to realize that self-immolation is not off the table when it comes to saving his brother.

Crowley laughs, is amused by her and her sentiment. There's a narrow eyed watching of Crowley. Of course he is living his best life: he's a demon. "I don't think life is all pain," she tells him very directly. "Sometimes it is, but I don't think that's how it always is. If it was, so many people wouldn't fight so hard to keep it."

There's a shake of her head. "You're a demon. You're the one doing the torturing." The poster is given and then unrolled. Fred looks at it, blinking a few times. Attitude. She's sure she saw this poster in one of her high school classrooms.

"Kind of you." The more they talk, the more Fred realizes it is all in circles.

The poster is rolled up again. Fred looks up. Finally, she spears a bit of food and eats it. Then, she washes it down with her wine. "Okay. I'll take the contract. But, I want this to be like a thesis. You're my advisor. When I have questions, you're going to be the one that answers them. //You// not someone else. And I'm not kissing you.'"

Crowley has posed:
It's safe to say in nearly 400 years of peddling soul contracts Crowley has never had anyone ask him to be his thesis advisor before as a condition of the deal. His eyebrow quirks upward, and his smile is mysterious as he says, "Rest assured, little Peabody, that you have earned yourself a mentor for all eternity."

In deference to her desire not to share a deep, passionate kiss with the King of the Crossroads he produces a contract which is sadly about as big as a book that might be handed off to a PhD student. He offers her a pen and says, "Stab yourself with that, fill it up nicely, and you should have more than enough ink to sign." It's all very modern looking, with yellow tabs marking the places where she's meant to sign just as if a 21st century lawyer had written the whole thing up and put it together for their perusal. "Have you any questions //now//? Oh look, dessert."

And dessert is, indeed, being laid down. Crowley plucks up a baklava and bites into it with every evidence of enjoyment.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
While verbal assurance is great it is not the same as reading an actual contract, so Fred smiles. The contract is set down in front of her and while Crowley may expect her to just go to the tabbed pages and stab a pen into herself to sign, that is not her nature. Instead, she is someone who reads and attempts to understand through the written word. And so, despite the legalese and the length of the contract she reads through it all. She has no care about time or food. Every once in awhile she will spear some food, but it is absent.

"I always have questions." As Fred reaches the end of the long document, though, she takes a breath and then stabs herself with the pen.

The stabbing hurts and it might draw her to her senses, but she then takes a breath. She knows exactly what is on the line and what she is doing. While she may not know what Crowley has planned, she knows this gives their plan ten more years. That's a better situation. And so, she signs.

Crowley has posed:
Crowley is very old.

That age gives him more patience than most give him credit for, and he is for the most part a gentleman. He has his hot buttons. He has been known to blow his top.

But over a canny business associate reading a contract? No. He contents himself with polishing off the rest of a stellar meal. He watches the boats on the water. He flirts with the staff, who aren't quite so fearful anymore. He drinks wine that never seems to get him drunk.

He enjoys the well-earned perks of his position, and contemplates the nature of life, and reality, and why there are heavens and hells and infinite realms carved out by pagan gods who steal what followers they can to hells of their own, or safety outstripping what the angels came up with. He wonders if he'd been any happier in, say, the Celtic Summerlands, which do in fact exist, and which are in fact untouched by any bloody self-righteous ostriches.

But he rather thinks not. He //loves// being what he is. Seeing miserable demons and conflicted angels...now that's a real waste.

A light October breeze stirs through the air, not nearly enough for chill in this area of the world, and he simply relaxes.

Fred is signing, and he says, "Ah, very good. And now I suppose I should get you back to New York, hmmm?"

The contract is simply //gone//. Other than the place where she stabbed, there's nothing to say it was ever there. But of course.

They both know it is.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
The pain in her finger lasts longer than the stab, longer than the signing. It's there even after the contract disappears. Fred is sure it will be there for quite awhile yet. In fact, she is sure that is actually the point of it. Perhaps this is why so many people opt for the kiss. One can hide it all away as if it was a drunken mishap, a shameful hook up one forgets. This, though? It's painful and the reminder remains. Just as they both knew it would. The pain - real or imagined - will be there for quite awhile.

The pricked hand is held against her chest as the contract disappears into thin air. She sort of expected it. "Just like Ursula," she says softly. It's hard to tell if that is a condemnation or merely an observation.

"Don't tell anyone about this," she says. Maybe she should have said that before the contract was signed. Crap. She's not good at all this negotiating, despite her reading everything. Sometimes, something else will always come up.

"New York, yes. Though, I'd like to actually enjoy a meal here first. Alone." She didn't actually eat much and she doesn't think she can enjoy anything in the company of the man who tortured Dean, who now holds the contract to her soul.

Crowley has posed:
"Flotsam, Jetsam, now I got her boys, the boss is on a roll," Crowley says, as deadpan as can be. He gestures for the check, and gets it, paying it much like one would pay just about anything else. He signs it and says, "Just say my name when you're ready to go home. I can always hear my contract holders." Another little fact he hadn't disclosed to Dean, but maybe he enjoys watching Dean go through the whole song and dance of making his way to a crossroads and going through the whole ritual just to summon him.

It's hard to tell with Crowley.

He also doesn't agree to silence one way or another. He just gives a mysterious, smug smile which could mean practically anything. And then he's gone...leaving Fred to enjoy her meal by herself as she demands.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
The fact that Crowley knows who Ursula is comes as a surprise. That he can deadpan the exact point of the song she thought about is something else entirely. Without being able to stop herself, Fred's eyes go wide. Sam has been trying to teach her, but the lessons only go so far without months and months of practice.

Fred was about to ask how to get in touch with Crowley himself - as he is now her demonic thesis advisor - but he already tells her right before he disappears. The smug smile seems to bely that there is no honor amongst thieves and therefore she has to head things off at the pass. It's probably best to talk to Dean first in matters such as this. Again, she can see Sam's face - an amalgam of angry, worried and desperate. He'd think her doing this to save Dean was his fault, that he hadn't done enough. That if he'd never met Fred she wouldn't be in this position.

So, she makes a very Winchester decision in her mind. Then, she sighs. "No one actually says goodbye any more," she laments to herself before ordering her own food and some more alcohol. She has nothing to celebrate, but she does have something to drink about. And so, she decides to tuck in. She's made her deal, she's decided to stay in the Underworld for awhile, might as well enjoy some pomegranate.