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“Mum? Muuum? Mummy…?” The boy called as he raced through the dark back alleys behind where he and his mother called home. Or, where he supposed they called home. Two days ago he was out juggling behind the whore house to get a bit of coin or two because he was hungry. He was hungrier than hungry and his mother had seemed a little out of sync with the days. She was always that way when she was practicing her craft. Though, that evening when he came home, nothing was found in the house. Not even a note. Nothing of Rowena’s, nothing of his. Fergus could remember that night perfectly. He hadn’t slept a wink nor had a meal in three days. The boy was exhausted. The waves crashed against the cobblestone only a road away from him and the sound was so lulling, relaxing, that Fergus fell over and against a building. “Mum…” He said in a hoarse whisper, a soft sob escaping his throat. At eight years old, the boy had been abandoned. ‘She does hate me…’ He thought, tired, hazel eyes closed as he pulled his legs against his chest. With another soft sob, Fergus laid his head on his knees and shivered as the cool air blew in around him.
“Feeergus~” He heard the faux cheer in his mother’s tone as she called his name and he felt so warm. “Oi, come on now, Fergus. Wake up, my wee bonny lad.” Rowena cooed as she put an arm around him. “Mum?” The boy asked, his eyes barely opening to take in the figure of a woman standing over him. “Mummy, where have you been?” Fergus asked, leaning closer to her warmth. “Come now, Fergus, we don’t ask questions, you know. Now get up and go home.”
“Ah, it’s jus’ anoth’r dead kid.” A man said as he and another man walked by him, drunkenly stumbling around. “An’ if he ain’t dead, he’ll be dead by the mornin’, yeh can count yer bless’n’s on that.” He muttered out with a slur, kicking the boy in the side. “Aye. Dead.” But he wasn’t. Fergus opened his eyes and they were fully white, no pupil to be seen. He began speaking in a Latin tongue, the men leaving as quickly as their drunken feet would let them, though Fergus had them by their souls then. Witchcraft. He wasn’t very good at it, but his mother was powerful. In fact, he wasn’t very good at anything.
Except juggling.
The men turned to each other and began fighting to the death all while Fergus’ eyes were a pale and glowing white until the end. He didn’t let up on them either. A hiss of nearly perfect Latin had what it took to explode their bodies and he looked around, tears filling his big, hazel eyes. There was no point in staying here in this cold, shit smelling street any longer. He’d have to go to the workhouse soon enough, knowing now that Rowena had abandoned him. He had no father, and now he had no mother. A dark fire burned in the very pit of his soul as the boy walked back to his home, deciding to spend his last day there like a King before he torched the place.
That was the first time that Fergus Rodric MacLeod felt truly alone.
Crowley sucked in a sharp breath, glancing around with half open eyes. Rowena was gone, so why was he still thinking of things like this? He tried to move, but couldn’t, glancing down to see himself tied up to a chair once again. This time he could feel the blood coursing through him, burning him, and he felt like he was human enough to leave out of the bindings. There was no sign of Dean. No sign of Sam. No sign of Castiel. Not even a single sign of Rowena, though that was normal.
Though, curiously, there was a sign left across the room with a box underneath it. The leftover demon in his now human form decided to, though he was utterly weak, struggle out of his bonds and stand up. Crowley walked raggedly over to the box, glancing at the note. There was no name, no familiar handwriting. All it read was, “Do the right thing.” With an arrow pointing to the box. Inside the box were two things. A key, which he picked up and held close to him, feeling the weight of the soft metal in his hands, and a gun. The former demon stared at it for a long moment, thinking what that meant to him.
Do the right thing.
The right thing would be to take the key and jet out of here as fast as he could, but that meant living as a human. Living as this /monster/. That was all he was. A monster. He wasn’t the good guy. He wasn’t the bad guy. He was the monster. The one in between, the one that tried to be neutral. The one who did all he could to make sure that he was safe himself. That /he/ was okay.
He was the monster.
That thought made him drop the key, a sharp clanking sounded through the room as it hit the floor. He held the handgun and looked it over, cocking it, and holding it in front of him. Just one shot and it would be over. This was the right thing, wasn’t it? For a moment the former King wanted to fall to his knees and beg and pray to a god that never loved him. He was unlovable. That’s why this was the situation that Crowley was put in. “Poor unlovable little bitch king.” Rowena’s voice echoed through his head. “You’re nothing, you know? My wee sausage. You are absolutely nothing. You were a terrible King, you were a terrible son, and now you’re a terrible human. Again! You’d have thought that /some/ of my witchcraft would’ve sank into you, but~” She ended the sentence with the word being high pitched as if she was mocking Crowley.
“That’s it, mother.” The tone he spoke in was broken, so much so that nothing could fix it now. Rowena was nowhere in sight, he wasn’t aware whether she was alive still or not.
It only took one shot. One soft squeeze of the trigger. One bullet exiting and ricocheting from one wall to the next. Two seconds. This was the right thing. This was what he needed to do. What everyone wanted him to do. Crowley was, after all, a people person. Hearts and minds, right? Lover, not a fighter.
His body fell to the floor with a soft thud. It was over now, at least for him. His fight was said and done. There was nothing more for him, so why wait? What did he matter anyway? To Dean? He was nothing to him. Nothing. Sam? He was nothing to Sam as well. Rowena? Ha. Crowley was nothing, he was born nothing, he achieved nothing, and even here, at the end of his life, he was absolutely nothing.
What happens to lovers without love, in the end?