Chapter Text
The news flickered over the dusty screen atop the bar shelf, showing almost the same pictures from an hour ago. Or it could have been completely different ones. Crowley hadn't paid much attention the first time and certainly didn't pay attention three glasses of cheap whiskey later. He had enough first-hand experience with angels to imagine them easily bumbling around, crashing china like an entire herd of bulls without straining a brain cell.
He shoved the glass over the counter with another bill. "Another one."
The barkeep gave him a questioning look. If Crowley had been human, they would have needed to call an ambulance for his intoxication by now. But as it was, he kept himself on the edge between "drunk enough not to care" and "complete oblivion". A very sweet spot he visited a lot these days. In the end, the barkeep put another drink in front of him. "Last one."
"Sure." Crowley would switch bars again to… What was it? His fourth bar tonight? Maybe he'd stopped giving a shit about that, too.
He downed his drink in one go and rose from his bar stool. Without a look or a word, Crowley exited the bar and a rush of warm summer air hit him straight in the face, erasing every memory of the dingy and dusty place he had just left.
He looked down the street, still gripping the door handle for support, while he decided which direction to take.
Crowley chose neither and crossed the street to the dark hole in the city lights, where he knew a local park to be.
Alcohol just didn't cut it anymore, he decided. He needed something stronger, something his body ached for since he got dragged down from his last high by reality.
Crowley found the nearest park bench with ease. He just had to avoid the junkies, dealers and ladies of the night hiding in the bushes from prying eyes. Prying human eyes, at least. Crowley's cut straight through the darkness. Almost as if he was its creature or some other philosophical drivel.
He collapsed more than sat on the bench. The alcohol made his movements sluggish and his steps a stumbling mess.
But none of that mattered. Not the fallen angels roaming the earth and wreaking havoc. Not his drunken stupor that failed to numb his… his emotions. Only the small flask with fresh human blood in it. Greedily, Crowley opened it and drew a syringe. Only now, when he searched for a vein to inject the blood, did Crowley notice his trembling hands. He'd waited too long and he couldn't wait any longer. He rammed the syringe into the flesh of his meat suit, not caring about hitting any veins, and pushed.
The high hit him like a train, flooding warmth into his cold limbs
Crowley exhaled in relief and let the waves of very, very human emotions wash over him.
And with the high came the voices.
At the edge of his consciousness, speaking in strange tongues. And they spoke Enochian. They spoke about someone he knew: Castiel. The one responsible for their fall.
Crowley gave himself another shot. After such a long abstinence, one didn't quench the hunger.
That's when the high really kicked in…
Light. So much light. Bright and cold. And still… home.
Stubby hands and fingers…
Red hair. A woman?
Rowena.
She took him, cast her magic over him, cut him.
Grace dripped to the floor. Into a flask.
And he grew weaker… and weaker… and then…
Nothing.
Crowley awoke with a scream on his lips. His body shook violently. His clothes clung to his sweat-soaked skin.
Not a moment later, the park illuminated with blinding lights: a group of angels with their blades drawn. And they were closing in on him.
"Where is your grace, traitor!"
"Bollocks." With a flick of his fingers, Crowley teleported away.