sirenspull | 28 [Video] Filtered away from Castiel.

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28 [Video] Filtered away from Castiel.

[Crowley takes great pains to look like absolutely nothing is wrong. And, to those that do not know him extraordinarily well, inside and out, he succeeds. This is nothing more than a professional business transaction, an even-tempered instruction to the populace. And as Crowley glances down at the leather book in his lap, written in a bizarre language, he looks for all the world that this is just another Wednesday.]

The individual that has shown up in the Port is not Castiel.

[It's calm and soft-spoken; a fact.]

He is infected by millions upon millions of souls from Purgatory. It's driven him insane -- and soon, his vessel will crumble and something far more dangerous will seize control of him. Right now, he is hellbent on destroying all of the evil and sin in the world, to make his Daddy look like an inept moron, which... well. You hardly need to dismantle the Ku Klux Klan to do that.

[He falls quiet for a moment or two, to consider something, before he goes on.]

You can ask how he got that way; I'm not going to answer, because for one, it's none of your concern, and two, it's not the point. The point is that I am going to put him out of his misery before he sinks this rock to the bottom of the sea, but in order to do that, I need specific ingredients for a ritual to kill what is pulling his little puppet strings.

[Crowley leans back in his chair, frowning into the camera.]

I require the bone of a righteous man, the blood of a fallen angel, and the blood of a beast from Purgatory.... an ancient monster, if you want the specifics. Whoever gives them to me will be rewarded handsomely and not be slaughtered for their bodily fluids. And speaking of... Winchesters.

[His tone is now cold.]

I require the Colt. You have four hours to give it to me before I send my hounds to retrieve it.

[And Crowley's lips twitch into a smirk that can't even quite be called that. There's little effort put into keeping appearances now. In fact, the demon looks somewhat tired.]

Happy Thanksgiving. Enjoy your turkey, Americans.

[And the feed cuts off.]

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[Meg has done no such attempt in looking at all calm. In fact, her body's hair is pulled back and she's spattered with paint. Someone's been adding wards. Everywhere. The king can keep his appearances, she prefers at the moment to be a realist.]

When are you going to get a fallen angel this side of the train tracks?

[Crowley has since accepted that doing this, killing Castiel, is going to kill him in return. As such, some things just require far too much effort, including being a jackass to Meg.

He manages maybe half of his usual biting tone.]

Those sigils are useless.

[Crowley is actually a nerd.

Welp.]

[Meg looks up, and is forced to admit that she's using the 'throw spagetti at the wall' method. Everything she could think of was up on the walls, and she was pretty sure one of them was giving her a headache, come to think of it. ]

A girl can dream, can't she?

[There's a beat, and Meg actually looks serious.]

What are you doing, Crowley.

Playing hero.

[Evenly.]

You?

It doesn't suit you. You look like hell.

[Meg almost smiles, because pun fucking intended.]

I really don't know.

I should just let him kill you.

[There is a long pause. ]

But then the port will be overrun. And I think I like it here.

Is that a shred of confidence in my ability to handle the oncoming destruction of the planet? How refreshing, coming from your putrid mouth.

[And suddenly Crowley is surveying the sigil work, eyes narrowing slightly before he reaches out with a hand to fix one. The sloppiness bothers him.]

The ritual is going to kill me.

[He sounds somewhat neutral about that, almost as if speaking about the weather.]

I have no idea why I'm telling you, of all people, but I suppose someone is going to need to bury his body once I'm done stabbing it.

[Meg, surprisingly, doesn't jump, but she does look in his direction with something of a raised eyebrow. Rude. And then Meg actually listens to what he's saying and frowns.]

How very Romeo and Juliet of you.

[ She stands up, and crosses her arms, going to look over Crowley's repair work. After giving it a once over, she approves and decides not to say anything about it. Curses and summons were her forte, she rarely needed obscure sigils in an attempt to hold back abominations.]

And what if he pops right back up? Do you have a plan B?

Nothing quite says 'star-crossed' like rebellious angels and demons turned against one another because of power.

[He fixes a few more sigils -- more to do something with his hands than anything else -- before Crowley rolls his eyes to the ceiling, to look at the ones up there.]

There is no plan B. This is the only ritual available to us that can kill what Castiel absorbed. Our only other option past this would be pleading to God to save us all and, well --

[Crowley leans against the wall, removing a flask from his jacket to open it thoughtfully.]

I would rather wear cotton.

So, there's watch you try and go out with a bang, and hope it works, or get really drunk and wait for the Levis to swarm.

Wonderful.

[Meg pauses, and sighs heavily, looking over the sigils he's fixed, attempting to see the pattern, because she can tell he's right, but can't quite tell on one or two why. Oh well.

She'd always been best as Alastair's student, and he hadn't been much for defense.

Which might be helpful right now, come to think of it. ]

How are you planning to get close? The Colt?

Welcome to my life during the Apocalypse.

[It's quiet as he takes a sip from his flask, letting the liquid burn on the way down before he continues.]

The Colt managed to drop Lucifer for a few precious minutes. I only need seconds. That and I have something of a connection with the leader of the Leviathan. We have a score to settle.

[He gently swishes around the scotch, frowning contemplatively at it.]

Bastard didn't eat my muffins.

How many bulle-

[Crowley. You baked muffins. For Dick. ....Of course he did. Any other circumstance would be the time for a 'sucking up to Dick comment, but she's going to be the better demon. For the moment.]

...How many bullets are there?

One.

[He pauses.]

-- plus a box of ammunition underneath my desk that I had made, but I won't be sharing that with the Winchesters.

But you're sharing that with me.

[She gives him a look thats an odd mix between checking what the catch is and being very interested.]

Suddenly I feel all kinds of special.

[There's another beat.]

Why, your majesty, are you asking me for help?

I don't recall asking you for anything save to bury Castiel's body; I'm just talking to talk. Seeing as I'm going to die in the next two weeks, I don't have the energy to constantly be furious with your inability to see the truth. You'll come to terms with your end in your own time, just as I have with mine, young Padawan. Besides... there is always going to be one constant in the world and that is finding you reprehensible. Consider this a dying wish, checking your penmanship and reminding you that I won. Or lost, depending on your perspective.

[He slides the flask back into his coat, turning back to face the wall completely, looking back at the sigil work. He pauses before beginning to draw, in Enochian, fingers moving smoothly against the wall. When he's finished, Crowley stares at it for a moment before sliding his hands into his pockets.]

That would be his name, for your reference.

[And Crowley brushes past her, to move to a window, so he can see outside.]

Don't put him near the ocean.

[ She stands there, looking at the Enochian on the wall and feeling, for once, utterly conflicted. Meg would prefer to say that she won, Crowley lost, and him going to his death is the best idea he's ever had. That, really, is what she would like to say. Except...]

....Cas was alright after the Leviathans skipped town. A little worse for wear, but he was alive and kicking.

He attempted to give me a bag of honey to make up for what he did to me. And then once that was over, I locked him in Purgatory to rot. He's dead, or good as, and so is Dean Winchester.

[It's said with a resounding amount of bitterness, curt and to the point, almost vicious -- but once that was done, Crowley falls abruptly silent before he draws in an even breath.]

It's only just that I am the one to put him out of his torment when I'm the one that convinced him to join me in the first place.

Before that, you sorry sack of meat. Before he sucked the hell out of Sammy's brain.

[And Meg has let her voice raise, just out of frustration, because she doesn't even know why this stupid angel went and settled himself in her head, but she knows that she at least has to look at some other option. Something.]

Sure, he needed a kickstart, but Clarence was back and in business after only a couple of hours with Deano and me.

After six months of not knowing who or what he was. And then what? Suddenly remembering millions upon millions of years of memories may crack him. He's suffered more trauma in Siren's Port than you know about.

[It's said dismissively, but Crowley takes her point to heart, even if he'll never admit it. It's a good point. Castiel was truly fine, in the end. He always is.

That still doesn't change the fact that Crowley is going to die or get ripped across the trans-dimensional rift, but he supposes that's worth something.]

-- who even knows what will happen in this universe. The effects. What the altered ritual will do to him or his psyche.

And? I'd still back his horse in a race.

[She's pretty sure it doesn't matter what happened to him that she doesn't know, because, frankly, whatever lept out of Sam's head was probably worse.]

But if anything is going to kill Clarence, it'll be this. Are you sure there's not some-

[Meg sort of stops partway through, because despite whatever the hell Clarence is to her, or to Crowley or to anyone, she's not sure 'waiting until the leviathans bust out' is a reasonable answer, and that's really the only one aside from this, that she knows of. And that's likely to end in the huge concentration of leviathans to destroy everything. So, not an option. ]

If there were, would I be doing this?

[He slides his hands into his pockets again, staring moodily at the bushes outside.]

He hunted me down after Purgatory was opened, in our universe. It's the same version. Whatever that thing is, it's not Castiel. He's dead already.

[]Meg seems to agree, with something of a shrug, even though he couldn't be see her.]

There was a reason I stayed in Dubai. Word traveled, and staying off the new god's radar sounded like a good idea.

[She stands there for a long moment, looking over the Enochian again and trying to keep the pattern in her head. She'll have to take a picture. She may not be Crowley's ally, or even tolerate him, but Cas....Stupid fucking angel.]

I killed an angel, for him. [She says out of nowhere, as if it was perfectly on topic.] In front of other angels.

Edited 2012-11-25 06:00 (UTC)

[That strikes a silence in Crowley, as he's legitimately surprised. He hadn't know that, that Meg had gone to that length to keep Castiel safe. And in a way, it almost unsettles him, as he stares at her, because that's a level of recognition of emotion that he hadn't expected from her. Crowley understands right and wrong. Meg isn't supposed to. She's just supposed to be... Meg.

He's quiet, as he mulls that over, before he huffs softly to himself, leaning against the windowsill with a shoulder.]

Well -- I handed him the keys to my domain.

[It's said lazily.]

I think it's his eyes.

[Meg smiles, it's not a particularly nice smile, more bitter than anything else. It's not fair that she's stuck confused, and angry, and feeling betrayed because some stupid feathered thing is more likely to kill her for being some creature opposing his vision than trail after her like a puppy. It's irritating, and it grates, and she can't tell if she's pleased someone else is stuck feeling things because of the angel or if she's jealous because she wants to keep them all to herself.

Things were always so much easier with her father to lead her.]

Those baby blues sure are something, aren't they, your majesty?

[There's a soft hum of approval as he glances at the floor, interested in the patterns on the floor. He doesn't bother continuing the line of thought -- instead, Crowley's lips curve upward slightly, though there's no humor in the action, and he speaks somewhat offhandedly.]

Lucifer ripped Castiel into a billion pieces.

[He glances over at Meg, arching his eyebrows, almost challenging her.]

Should Satan come back, what would you do? Is your loyalty to him worth more than yours to Castiel? Because...

[Crowley lets his eyes move back to the floor, letting his voice trail off, before he seems to decide something and he sighs slightly.]

Well -- I suppose discussing my own personal existential crisis is coming a bit late in this game of kings and queens and fallen knights. It doesn't actually matter.

28 [Video] Filtered away from Castiel.

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