Work Text:
Neutral territory, to Crowley, is the private party room of an innocuous Texas Roadhouse in Hixson, Tennessee. When Castiel first arrives, the restaurant is cheerfully busy. The smell of meat and bread and onion overwhelms. Peanut shells crunch and pop beneath his shoes.
“Hello!” the hostess calls, from behind her imposing wooden stand. “How many in your party today?”
“Just one,” Castiel says, and tries very hard to avoid stepping on any more peanut shells. “I’m here to see Crowley.”
The hostess’s eyes flash black, just for a second, and Castiel cannot tell if it is in warning or in welcome. “Follow me,” she says, and leads him through the maze of booths and tables, towards the back.
This location, like everything else about Crowley, is a careful manipulation. The three employees loudly singing an out-of-tune rendition of Happy Birthday are demons, as is the birthday boy, and the large family wedged into the corner booth, and the couple sharing a strange-looking onion dish at a table for two. The entire establishment reeks of Hell―Castiel wouldn’t be surprised if every single customer and employee had been possessed.
Castiel is not afraid of demons, and he is not afraid of Crowley. This is fortunate, as he has come to this meeting alone. His brothers and sisters don’t need to know of the bargain he and Crowley have made, and Dean—Dean cannot know, because Dean is with Lisa.
The hostess hurries along. She doesn’t seem to care about stepping on the peanut shells. It makes her difficult to keep up with. She leads him to a set of double doors, a short distance from the bathrooms. “In here,” she says, and ushers him inside.
The private party room is―it’s the sort of room Dean would bring him to. The wood-paneled walls are plastered with old license plates and cowboy-themed posters. The light is dim and red. A juke box lurks darkly in the corner. And there, seated at the end of a long table, positioned just-so beneath the taxidermied head of an evil-looking buffalo, is Crowley.
He’s drinking, when Castiel enters. Something amber. Whiskey, perhaps. A very full whiskey glass, if Dean’s were anything to judge by. For a moment, they stare at one another, while Crowley savors it and swallows, slow and easy. “Hello, Castiel,” Crowley says. “Care for a drink?”
Castiel steps in close, until Crowley is forced to tip his head back to look him in the eye. “You know it’s wasted on me,” Castiel says, and crosses his arms. “I can’t taste it.”
Crowley scoffs. “Oh, you poor, poor bastard. What the hell has Dean been teaching you? It’s not about the taste, darling. It’s about the sensation.” Crowley takes a sip, and smiles as he swallows. And then, he holds out his half-finished glass to Castiel. “Go on,” he says. “Take a sip.”
The glass itself looks like the sort of thing Dean would hate, because it looks expensive. The cut glass shines bright, even in the dim lighting. To one side, there is a faint wet mark, where Crowley’s lips were.
“It’s Glenlivet Winchester,” Crowley says, a hateful smile crooked at the corner of his mouth. “Thought you’d appreciate it.”
Castiel glares, and swirls the liquid in its glass. It smells―sharp. Heavy. Just like Dean’s whiskey. He swallows it all in one go, and it feels like holy fire inside him, all the way down.
“There you go,” Crowley croons. “How does it feel?”
He cocks his head, considering. His capillaries are beginning to expand, ever so slightly. His stomach secretes a touch more acid, irritated by the alcohol. He feels― ”Warm,” Castiel says. “Tingly.”
Crowley stands, and snags the decanter from the table. “It’s good, yes?”
Castiel closes his eyes and traces the alcohol’s path through his vessel. “It’s strange. It feels like―”
“Like you want more?”
Castiel glares. “Like I have to urinate.”
“Well,” Crowley steps in close, until Castiel can smell the sulfur on his breath. “If that’s what you’re into, love.”
“You disgust me,” Castiel says, scowling. Crowley smells of Hell, and of alcohol, and sweat, and the strong, piney scent that seems to define every bottle of cologne intended for men. It’s a rather potent combination. It makes Castiel feel―strange.
Crowley smiles, at that. “Mother always said I was an acquired taste,” he says, and pulls the stopper from the decanter. “Have another drink.”
Wordlessly, Castiel holds out his glass. The decanter clinks gently against the rim of his cup, and Castiel―he watches Crowley. He never seemed like a kingly sort of person, with his somewhat bedraggled hair and unkempt beard and his jarringly expensive dark suits. And today, there’s something disheveled about him. As though the crown has weighted a little heavier, these past weeks. If Crowley was less of a blight, Castiel might, perhaps, be worried.
Crowley catches him staring, and the corner of his mouth quirks. He stares in return―guessing at the war’s progression, most likely. And Castiel knows the picture he paints. He knows what Crowley will see in the speck of blood at the collar of his shirt, the slight tear in his coat. But Crowley says nothing. He just looks, and he fills Castiel’s glass to the brim, until the slightest shake of his hand would be enough to make it spill.
Castiel tips his head back and swallows it all. Crowley’s eyes track the movement of his throat, greedy for something Castiel cannot name.
He takes the glass from Castiel, and pours another drink. “How’s Heaven?” Crowley asks, and offers Castiel the glass once more.
He takes it, and admires the sharp, biting liquid inside. “How’s Hell?” Castiel replies, and sips his scotch.
“It’s Hell, Castiel. Not the easiest place to manage.”
The scotch is running low. Crowley snaps his fingers, and the bottle refills. He snaps them again, and summons himself a glass. When he drinks, he sighs. His lips are very pink. “But enough about me,” Crowley says, and points at the blood on Castiel’s collar. “Tell me about that.”
The blood is from one of his brothers. His name was―was―by the grace of the Father, Castiel has killed so many of his kin, he’s forgotten. But he remembers how they ran to earth, him and his loyal brethren, because they were no match for Raphael’s followers in Heaven. And when his followers fell, one by one―when their grace burnt to nothing and their bodies bled out― “We lost,” Castiel says. “There’s nothing else to tell.”
“Ah. How many did you lose?”
Not all, but― “Enough,” he says.
“Castiel.”
He is taller than Crowley, in this vessel and in his true body. Now, he looms, deliberately. His fist clenches around his half-full glass until it creaks. “We aren’t friends, Crowley,” he says, harsh and angry. “And I don’t discuss the strategies of Heaven with―with business partners.”
Crowley holds up his hands, placatingly. “I’m concerned, is all. Hoping I didn’t bet on the wrong horse.”
“What other horse would you have bet on?”
“Fair enough.” Crowley downs his drink, all at once. Castiel watches him; his eyes, half-lidded; the ruddy color in his cheeks; his lips, wet and full and pouting. “Had enough sensation yet, or do you want more?”
“More,” Castiel demands, holding out his glass. Crowley laughs, and gently takes it from his hands. And then, he―
His hands go to Castiel’s face. His thumb brushes over Castiel’s chin, once, twice. He brushes his lips against Castiel’s, barely there at all. Castiel jerks away, affronted. “I’m not making another deal with you,” he says firmly, but does not push Crowley away.
Crowley laughs. “No deals, Castiel. Sometimes business is just for pleasure, if you catch my drift.”
“So that was…”
“Pure pleasure. Figured you’d like it.” Crowley levels Castiel with a hard, searching look. “Did you?”
“I―maybe.” Castiel shrugs, and glances briefly at his shoes. “I’ve never done that before.”
“Do you want more?”
Castiel nods, and Crowley smiles; sticky-sweet and mischevious. When he kisses Castiel, it is a slow, lingering thing. His tongue presses against Castiel’s lower lip, and when Castiel does not oblige him, Crowley presses his thumb to his chin and gently forces his mouth open. His tongue dips inside, slick and sudden, and Castiel makes a shocked, helpless noise against Crowley’s lips. Crowley laughs, at that, and pulls away with a wet click.
“And how does that make you feel?” Crowley asks, his hands still cupping Castiel’s face.
His vessel is flushed, and sweaty, and―and buzzing. His stomach twists and turns, and, inexplicably, it feels as though he’s swallowed an entire colony of furious bees. His lips are wet, with Crowley’s spit. He feels the sudden, overwhelming urge to lick it away. When he does, Crowley stares at his mouth. And Castiel―he does it again, because he likes Crowley looking. He cannot taste it, but he wants―he wishes he could. It’s warm, Castiel thinks. Warm, and tingly.
Crowley rubs his thumb over the round of Castiel’s cheek, waiting.
“Hungry,” Castiel says. “It makes me feel hungry.” And he can’t help it―he puts a hand on Crowley’s neck, gentle, the way that Crowley held him. When he kisses Crowley, it is hard and unpracticed. Like this, with the scotch lingering on Crowley’s lips, he can hardly taste the sulfur.
“Again,” Castiel demands. “Do that again.” And Crowley laughs, and laughs, and laughs.