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“You shouldn’t be drinking that in the car,” Castiel, Angel of the Lord, told his passenger.
“Texas open container laws are full of loopholes,” Crowley, King of Hell, said as he cradled the cut-crystal highball glass with its two fingers of whiskey. He drank a finger’s worth, then watched it fill back to two. Fingers. Huh. Having a couple floating in the glass might be interesting, especially if they were frozen.
“No,” Castiel said, not taking his eyes off the two-lane asphalt ahead.
“You don’t have a clue what I was thinking about.”
“I don’t have to. The answer is no.”
Crowley let himself laugh. “You know, one of the reasons you’re so uptight, Cass, is that you are cut off from the true pleasures of this earthly plane.”
The angel didn’t answer.
“Take this whiskey I’m drinking, for example. Macallan Reflexion: the name tells you its true intent, even if they did have to spell it wrong to look down with the kids. You sip it, and you just have to stop and sort through the various flavors. It’s spicy. There’s a hint of citrus zest, a waft of sultana. It’s delightful in its aroma, and the tingle of it on your tongue.”
Castiel sighed.
“Ah, but that’s not the best part! No, it’s not the gentle clutch of it on your throat, or the way it fills your guts with warmth. It’s—and this will surprise you—it’s the finish.” Crowley took a sip, let it rest on his tongue, let slide back down his throat, and then took that first after-drink breath, exhaling with a low groan of pure sensuality.
“Do you have to do that in the car?”
“It’s the finish, Cass. My God, the finish. Sheer perfection, with a promise of more to come.”
He waited, but the driver said nothing.
“Oh, come on, Agent Bae, nobody’s that above it all. Don’t tell me you don’t long to enjoy something, anything as much as I’m enjoying this simple glass of bliss.”
“I’ve consumed alcohol before.”
Crowley feigned shock, then snorted. “You hang around with the Winchesters. Of course you’ve had alcohol. But I’m not talking about some weak American good ole boys’ beer or that rotgut their Bobby-Daddy taught them to like. I’m talking about knowing every curve and sensitive spot of taste.”
“There is nothing I don’t know about the liquid in your hands, including that it costs a $1,000 a bottle, which doesn’t matter to you, but did matter to Mr. Whimlford, whose soul is now in hell, along with his liquor collection. It’s one of the premiere offerings from a distillery in Speyside, created by Robert Dalgarno, and aged in sherry-seasoned American and Spanish oak casks. The fancy bottle probably means they’re selling it for much more than it’s worth.”
Crowley’s eyebrows were at maximum height. “Feathers! I’m impressed.” He produced a second glass. “If you would like?”
“No.”
“Hm, that’s odd, knowing so much about premium liquor and not even wanting a taste.”
“It won’t—” Castiel just closed his lips and scowled at the road.
“Won’t what? Won’t have any effect on you? I know better than that. Even angels’ vessels still respond to drugs.”
The angel kept driving.
“So, if it will make you drunk, I’m guessing it won’t make you happy.” Crowley straightened slightly in his passenger seat. “You can’t taste this lovely ambrosia, can you?”
Still nothing.
“I mean, I’m sure you could tell me everything about the taste, but you can’t really enjoy it, can’t experience it as a sensual thing, can you? Interesting. Makes me wonder what else you can’t enjoy. Food, I’m assuming. I know angels like music. You’re basically waves of music yourself when you’re in Heaven.”
“Who told you that?”
“Ah! He speaks!” Crowley took another sip, enjoying the sensation as overtly as possible. “You forget I had a halo on my payroll once? But then, I doubt that, seeing as how you killed the poor bastard by shoving an angel-killing bullet into his eye.” Crowley laughed with admiration. “You know, that’s one of the things about you that just keeps me from hating you, even after you betrayed me. You look so, how shall I say, innocuous in your little coat, but you have a reputation we knew about in Hell even before you pulled Dean out of one of our most protected realms. Everyone who knew your name knew you won battles you shouldn’t have been able to, that you killed ruthlessly, creatively.”
“I fought battles for God.”
“Yes, and you fought them very well!” Crowley laughed again. “I’ve seen through the eyes of demons who witnessed it. Going after Deanie-boy, you smote with one had and stabbed with the other. You dispatched demon soldiers like the old Oprah downed Oreos, and you were unstoppable.”
“I had a mission.”
Crowley waited, then frowned, then smiled. “I also know about the time you were sent to ferret out that little pocket of resistance in ancient Babylon. You appeared as—”
“I do not wish to discuss that.”
“A sore spot? I’m amazed!”
“While I’m sure it must sound like quite the party to you, it brings me no pleasure to remember killing hundreds of people who had no idea what was going on.”
“Actually, it sounds kind of pathetic, but c’mon, Cassie.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You haven’t said anything interesting for days. Pick a topic, any topic.”
“Silence is a topic.”
“Not one I’m interested in.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Throw me a bone. If talking about killing your enemies is too political for you, pick a topic about daily angel life, if you like.”
“No.”
Crowley sipped again, looking out over the boring landscape of west Texas. He thought idly of setting fire to some scrub. Then he smiled.
“All right, tell me about your daily non-angel life.”
Ha! Cass definitely stiffened at that suggestion, but Crowley sensed it wasn’t completely in rejection.
“It’s not very interesting,” he said finally.
“Oh, I doubt that. You and you against the world? Although, I’m sure the Brothers Flannel were happy to help.”
He watched Castiel fold in on himself just slightly.
“No? They didn’t clasp you to their bosom? After all you did for them? They didn’t hide you in their bunker of brotherly love?”
Thirty seconds passed in silence. Crowley saw Castiel’s shoulders lower just so slightly.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I got to torture my first serial killer?” the demon asked.
“Dean had to ask me to leave the bunker to protect Sam.”
“Which is how you ended up working at Gas n’ Sip.”
“So you already know all about it.”
“Mere facts, my flightless one. Facts. Broad outlines. I want details.”
Castiel was quiet, but not closed off. Crowley let him stew for a bit, but just as he was about to prod, the angel spoke: “I disliked having to sleep so much. The need to eat was almost constant. And, of course, there was the vulnerability to the elements. Being hot. Being cold. Being uncomfortable. I hadn’t appreciated before then how much humanity is motivated by the simple desire to avoid pain and discomfort. Some things I had before attributed to vanity or selfishness I realized were about a simple need not to feel something bad.”
Crowley nodded and took a quiet sip. It really was excellent whiskey.
“I was also surprised by the concept of need, particularly physical need. Before then, I needed to obey orders and play my role. Certainly, I could not have applied more effort to Dean Winchester’s rescue. But need took on a new meaning. The nagging quality of it, the inability to ignore, the louder and more urgent it would get. I pitied humans before when they were tormented, but I learned that for some humans it’s such a fine line: every day was a torment, every day could be a defeat to it or a triumph over it.”
Castiel grew quiet again, but Crowley just waited.
“My thousands of years before then, everything had been at a cosmic scale. Humans, more than anything, were boring, and they were petty. But then, as a human, what had been petty meant the difference between comfort and torment. What had seemed boring was the overwhelming struggle just to continue, to keep walking, to keep working, to keep going in the belief that things would get better.”
“Tom Stoppard,” Crowley found himself mumbling. “One of my favorites, actually.”
“Metatron,” Castiel said next. He didn’t continue.
“The Scribe of God?” Crowley prodded.
“Yes. He took steps to ensure I could understand his literary references.”
“Knowing angels, they were painful steps.”
But Crowley misplayed his hand. The angel just looked irritated at his attempt at sympathy.
“It was nothing.” Castiel drove on for another half-mile, precisely at the 70 mph speed limit while other cars passed him like students fleeing from class. “But all knowledge creates a filter for experience.
Crowley opened his mouth, but Castiel scowled. “I’m talking. The reward for my talking is supposed to be your silence.”
“Consider me as a whispering wind through a prairie.”
Castiel rolled his eyes.
“It was difficult, but I did eventually manage to find a place where I could feel some dignity in my existence.”
“But you didn’t stay away. You teamed back up with the Winchesters.”
“Yes, and in so doing realized I had no right to turn my back on my brothers and sisters.”
“Even though you knew they hated you?”
“They have every reason to hate me. I allowed myself to be duped, and they paid the price.”
“You didn’t get off exactly scot-free.”
Cass shot him a glare. “Don’t pretend sympathy, Crowley. It doesn’t become you.”
The King of Hell almost felt bad for a moment. In fact, he did feel somewhat understanding of Castiel’s situation.
“I was human once, you know,” he settled for saying.
“A somewhat foolish one.”
“Well, we have that in common.”
Castiel let that sit there for a moment. “Ultimately, I feel I made the right choices as a human, though I’m sure not all would say they agree.”
“I know about you and Bartholomew, you know, how he offered to make you his lieutenant and you killed him instead.”
“It was necessary.”
Crowley waited, but the angel did not elaborate.
“Now, that’s interesting,” the demon said at last. “You didn’t correct me.”
“I did kill him.”
“But only because he forced you to, and that’s what’s so very fascinating. You’re quick to take blame, loathe to take a compliment.”
“I am considering the source.”
“Nah, you’re just a martyr at heart, which is an odd thing for an angel, for all they say. Most of you lot are good soldiers, but self-sacrifice isn’t usually your family’s bag.”
Castiel shook his head. “A good soldier knows sacrifice is the last weapon of the arsenal. The times I have made the choice to employ it, I truly believed I had nothing else to fight with.”
“Times?” Crowley did some math. “Just how many times have you given up the holy ghost, anyway?”
“I’m not sure.” The angel was silence for a while again, then got into the left lane, passed a truck, and slipped back into the right lane. “I may have died in Van Nuys, or I may simply have been drained of my grace. I may have died in the lake, or the Leviathans may have just left me for dead.”
“So two for sure, then?”
“Four. Raphael, Lucifer, April, and then Lucifer again.”
Crowley hadn’t known about one of the Lucifers. He’d have to torture the informant in question. Or maybe just all of them. “And now they’re all dead.”
“True.”
“Tell me, since we’re talking about non-angel you, how about when you were God-you?”
Castiel shot him a look. “As a human, I never got used to urination.”
“Oh, come on, now. It’s not like I don’t know the broad strokes. I was there, after all, being betrayed.”
“You were on Raphael’s side at that point.”
“I had to do something to keep from getting completely shafted. My partner had been so heartless.”
“I have no idea what you would like me to say about that.”
“An apology might ease the tension.”
Castiel shook his head. “To be sorry means that I wish I had made a different choice, and as much as I have to regret those days, the angels and people I killed, the havoc I caused . . .”
Crowley waited a full minute. “Yes?”
“The only alternative I could see then is still the only one I know: namely, allowing Raphael to restart Armageddon. As much damage as I did, I didn’t kill billions. I didn’t let Earth be destroyed in that blast wave.”
“And you didn’t also just happened to save your boyfriend and his brother.”
The driver rolled his eyes. “Tell me, Crowley, when you were hanging out with Demon Dean, drinking, taking selfies, and howling at the moon, just how disappointed were you to realize it was Dean’s humanity you most admired?”
“Quite a bit.”
Castiel looked at him, eyes slightly wide.
“Didn’t expect me to admit it, did you?”
“No.” The angel looked back at the road.
Crowley shrugged and refilled his whiskey. “I thought Dean as a demon would be the version I’d heard about in Hell. A master of torture, a Prince of Pain, and true professional. Instead, he was just a useless wanker with a tin ear.”
Castiel snorted. “A little too close to home, then?”
“I’ll have you know I’m quite good at a ditty or two when I’m in the mood.” He grinned. “Shall I prove it to you?”
“Please don’t.”
“I know a Scottish dirge that will leave you crying in your pin feathers.”
“I’ll forgo the experience for now.”
“Your loss. So, I’ve been honest. Your turn. What made you flip, Cass? Why, out of the thousands of angels, why were you the only one to tell Zachariah to stick it where his suit pinched? Just what did Dean Winchester say to you?”
“Nothing.”
Crowley scowled and looked away.
“It was nothing he said. It was nothing Sam said.”
“It was what they did?”
“More accurately, it was what they didn’t do. Born straight from the line of Cain. Destined to fulfill God’s word, the prophesy to end all prophesies. Ordered by the Host of Heaven to live out the end of mankind’s oldest conflict, a fight they had been born to and trained for their whole lives and for all the lives that went into making their lives. And they dug in their heels and refused to play along.”
“Well, when you put it like that, it is somewhat inspiring.”
“I saw them defy orders and knew I could do the same. I also knew it would likely result in my death, and was almost certainly destined, literally, to fail.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“It became impossible not to. I could not stand by and watch the choice be taken from humanity by underhanded tricks.” A strange expression was chased off the angel’s face.
“What?”
“You and Zachariah would probably have made a good team.”
“I cannot express how deeply offended I am.”
Castiel looked surprised. “He was an extremely powerful Seraph. Or is it beneath you to serve?”
“I’m talking about being compared to that plank-headed bean counter who couldn’t close a deal with an oven door.”
“Setting Sam on killing Lilith when her death was the final seal seems just like the kind of betrayal you’d appreciate.”
Crowley shrugged. “Sure, for your usual dupe. But take it from a former crossroads demon, the true strength of a con depends on your assessment of your mark. Sure, realizing you’ve dug your own grave would defeat many a tosser with dreams of glory, but Sam and Dean? It just made them angry. And when Sam and Dean get angry, it’s really best to get out of their way, not confront them in a tiny room over the body of their bleeding half-brother.”
“You’re very well informed.”
“I pay very well to be well informed.”
Castiel nodded, but Crowley saw his attention was switching to an oversized truck ahead of them hauling half of a mobile home. A tow-truck was behind it, flashing its yellow lights. The angel signaled, then moved into the left lane to pass.
What an odd thing it was, the way humans made their dwellings. There were hundreds of thousands of abandoned structures in America that could easily be made livable even for their flimsy carcasses, but instead they’d rather buy a new, flimsy thing that lost most of its value the second someone took a wiz in the loo.
Reaching out, as it was clear Cass wasn’t talking until he’d safely navigated the little road hazard, Crowley found checked the fastenings and hitches and other doo-dads on the truck were in place and working properly. The truck driver was listening to NPR, which was unusual enough, he supposed. The tow-truck driver was listening to Christian rock, which was to say, not Crowley’s idea of a good choice. He contemplated switching the station to death metal.
A motorcycle came roaring up behind them, going about 120 mph, a Harley Davidson CVO Road Glide with a slightly dented Fang spoiler, to be exact. It shot between them and the tow truck, weaved back in front of the over-sized load, and then wobbled, which at 120 mph meant—yes, there it went, ass over tea kettle and right down the right lane in front of the over-loaded semi.
Crowley blinked out to stand on the side of the road where the whole mess was bound to come to a screeching halt of twisted metal and a quite bit of fire, if he were lucky. It would be painful for Castiel, but the angel would be fine in the end. They’re have to pick up another car.
But as he looked right, Crowley watched the light blue sedan with an angel at the wheel expertly avoid the semi as all eighteen wheels drove right over the motorcycle even as the tow-truck slammed into its rear. Castiel ended up pulling to a stop on the shoulder slightly past the wreck.
It struck him as odd, the way the trench-coated figure got out of the car, stood, closed the door, and then began walking toward the—yes, there it went. The first fireball, coming not from the trucks but from the giant slice of mobile home. Perhaps there was butane inside it for the stove? Sounds like something stupid some ass would do to save money, he thought fondly.
Cass walked to the cab of the semi, forced open the door, and pulled the unconscious driver out. Mr. NPR was a big one too, his head lolling back as Cass carried him to the side of the road and well away from the flames. Then he went back for the tow truck driver and did the same.
When Cass turned back to the road, Crowley started heading for the blue sedan. The motorcycle rider was dead and reaped. When the truck drivers woke up, they could take things from there.
But no, the demon noted with a sigh, Cass was getting out his phone.
“Really?” Crowley asked when he was close enough not to have to shout.
Blue eyes looked at and through him. “Hello, yes. I would like to report an accident.”
Crowley looked away. Dead, flat, dusty, uninhabited. It was kind of like hell, but with prettier sage brush and no incompetent minions.
Another car came up on the horizon, a red sub-compact with a woman and her son listening to a Sesame Street CD. It wouldn’t reach them for a good five minutes. If Cass didn’t want to leave the truckers alone, he could arrange for a convenient flat.
“No,” Cass said him to him, pulling the phone away from his mouth.
“You don’t know what—”
“I still don’t have to. No.”
“Bugger,” he said without real heat. He was getting that feeling again, the one he hated, the one where he really didn’t care much one way or another.
He walked over to the truckers, laid out carefully with their arms and legs straight. Their heads were bloody, but the damage looked mild. He suspected the angel of doing a little healing during his rescue.
The fire reached the semi’s tank, which went with a fairly impressive bang. A billowing plume of black smoke rose up, almost making him nostalgic.
The red car arrived finally, passing the burning wreck carefully on the opposite shoulder, then pulling up to them and stopping beside Castiel, who was just standing there like an Indian chief statue outside a tobacco shop. Well, his coat was moving a bit.
The window rolled down. The woman was pretty. The song was “Put Down the Duckie.”
“My God,” she said. “Are you OK?”
Cass looked at her. “We’re fine, and the drivers will recover.”
Don't be a stubborn cluck
Ernie, lay aside the duck!
“I’ve called the police,” he continued. “They’re on their way.”
“Can I help?”
“That’s very kind of you to ask, but the situation is under control.”
I've learned a thing or two from years of playing in a band.
It's hard to play a saxophone with something in your hand.
“Are you sure?” she looked down at the unconscious drivers at Cass’ feet. “Did you get them out of there?”
“Yes. They are far away enough from the fire to be all right until assistance arrives.”
The woman was staring at Cass now, eyes wide. Crowley thought it was reasonable. From a human’s point of view, the angel’s EMT act was impressive enough, he supposed.
To be a fine musician
You're gonna have to face the facts.
“That’s incredible,” she said. Predictable. She scrambled for something and came back up to the window with a phone. Cass frowned at it, obviously draining the battery. The woman exclaimed in frustration.
“Mommy, I really have to peeeee,” came through the window.
“Please see to your son,” Cass said. “We will ensure this is taken care of properly.”
“But I just wanted to thank you for—” She interrupted herself, looking around. “For.”
“Mommy!”
Though you're blessed with flying fingers
When you wanna wail, you're stuck.
“It’s truly all right. You can leave now.”
The woman finally looked at Crowley, who smiled at her and raised his glass of premium whiskey in salute.
Eyes still wide, she turned back to the road and slowly drove away, the window still down.
What good are flying fingers if they're wrapped around a duck?
Change the toy's position if you wanna ace the sax!
Crowley looked down at the bloody truck drivers, who still hadn’t moved.
Very faintly: You gotta put down the duckie.
“Are you sure they’re all right?” Crowley asked.
“Yes.” Cass was watching the red car with an odd expression. “After I healed them I decided they should sleep.”
“Ah.” He waited several minutes, irritated when dust got into his drink. “Ah,” he said at last as blue lights flashed dimly on the horizon. Cass nodded, and then they both turned to the sedan and got in.
They drove for a while, then Crowley chuckled.
“What?” Castiel asked, which surprised him.
“I bet I know what you’re thinking about.”
Castiel didn’t answer, which didn’t surprise him.
“You’re wishing you could have saved that motorcycle guy. Even though it was his fault, even though he endangered the lives of two other people and pissed off someone waiting for their home sweet home, even though there was nothing you could do, considering his body was in about five pieces in a half-second, you wish you could have saved him.”
“Being reckless doesn’t mean he didn’t have a worthy life, people who cared about him.”
“He was a human, my little Hummel figure, just like the six billion other humans out here, risking their lives with no idea what’s at stake, risking other people’s lives because they don’t give a damn.”
“Well, I’m not human.”
“Angels aren’t supposed to care either.”
“Yes, they are. Our Father put us here to watch over them.”
“Well, the rest of your family tree didn’t get that memo.”
Cass said nothing for a long time, then finally just, “That is their choice.”
Crowley nodded, then remembered a great story he had about a crossroads deal where he managed to acquire the actual brass serpent Moses put up in the desert to stop his ungrateful following from being bitten and dying, which Crowley supposed had been quite a good bit of fun.
The woman on the red subcompact, whose name was Cynthia Lowethal, thirty-four years old and single mother of six-year-old son, Matthew, pulled into a rest stop about fourteen miles down the road. After texting a friend on her recharged phone that they were on time and she had a hell of a story to tell, she got her son back into the car and the car back on the I-10.
Cynthia was a cautious driver by nature, and more cautious than ever after seeing the fiery wreck, so in a few miles she was unsurprised to be overtaken by a car going just slightly over the speed limit.
It took her a moment to realize where she’d seen the light blue sedan before, and Matthew was still a little clumsy, so as the car passed while she was urging him to “Take the picture now, honey,” she wasn’t sure he got the image.
Later that evening, she was able to post to her Facebook page a slightly blurred image of Crowley through the car window, which disappointed her not because he was the King of Hell, but because he’d just been standing there while the other man spoke. Nevertheless, the post read: Heroes Save Lives Near Balmorhea!
END