sirenspull | 29 [Video] | Forward dated to the 7th.

[Crowley is alive.

This is a shocking fact, seeing as he fully expected to die. He even set up his so-called last will and testament, to set aside his funds and business transactions and all other sorts of things, in preparation for his death. However meaningless this universe is, Crowley is nothing but pragmatic. And as he sits in his chair, in his office, nothing seems out of the ordinary, save for a few things.

Once, he is holding a glass of liquor, which is hardly unusual. What is unusual is that his fingers grip it unusually tightly, almost as if he is convinced he is going to drop it. His eyes are lacking some of the spark that they usually hold, resigned and weary and ready to quit, though Crowley does not quit. He holds himself as someone who has lost a great deal but is far too stubborn to actually roll over and take it -- and as Crowley takes a sip of scotch, he clears his throat and speaks, his words slurring only slightly. He has great practice in speaking while intoxicated.]

I saw God yesterday, while I was stabbing my friend to death.

[Crowley considers that for a moment before he decides 'screw it' and finishes off his glass.]

I suppose I should get an attorney for that incriminating statement, but I'm having difficulty caring, as God is the one who put him out of his misery. The same one who allowed our world to dissolve into chaos and misery and let's not forget what He allowed His own poor stupid useless children to do to it, they killed one another because Daddy never hugged them. And you know what the best part was?

[Crowley huffs a soft laugh as he puts the glass back down. His fingers twitch to themselves and, perhaps in a delayed reaction, the demon swipes his hand across the table to let the glass hit the ground and shatter. It was only crystal. He can just buy another.]

He was right in front of our faces the entire time, God, the witless wonder that thought it would be funny to create an entire dimension dedicated to souls shredding each other for punishment and thought it would be hilarious to let Lucifer break out of his Cage and thought it would be hysterical for Castiel to --

[But Crowley stops himself, because that is getting into something of a deep and personal moment for him, and one can't have that. Instead, his tone lowers to something soft as he pushes himself up, hands keeping himself steady at his desk.]

If you want to speak with the useless twat, our Savior, His name is Chuck Shurley. Pray to Him if you want to know why Castiel lost his mind and the Leviathan ate your friends. I'm certain He has all the answers in the world for why they existed in the first place.

[And Crowley shuts off his feed by knocking his NV off of his desk.]

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Completely and utterly, my fine feathered friend -- and it isn't often that I am played for a fool.

[Crowley is furious. Viciously furious. You can see it in his eyes and how he holds himself and how his fingers curl around the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles are white because if there is one thing that demons hold to themselves, one thing that binds them all together, it is their hatred of God.]

He knew Castiel, in our world. Castiel died for Him. Raphael ripped him to pieces in front of Him and He did nothing but watch.

[Anyone else, Gabriel might bring up the Host tearing themselves to pieces over a piddly disagreement over what to bend your knees for while God let them and then turned around and left them with bloodied feathers and shattered Grace and the general air that nothing would be okay again.

Gabriel stood up to Lucifer. He gave humanity their shot.

And he got nothing.]

And you know what the worst part of it is? I'm not even surprised.

[There's a slight silence at that before Crowley rolls his eyes slightly, slumping in his chair to let out a long sigh, generally... tired. His host hurts. Breathing hurts. Rolling his eyes hurt. And Crowley has billions of complaints, of angry vicious rantings, but the first thing that pops into his head is:]

I keep running into my dogs.

I'd tell you to paint 'em, but you might have to break a lamp by hand just to prove you're good and riled up about the idea.

[He manages a teensy bit of a smirk. He's still smoldering with anger, but Crowley's not the source of it. He is one more schmuck who got screwed over and it's too emotionally draining even for him to just keep being angry.] Wish I could help, but pretty sure getting ol' Smokey back is beyond me. Not much call for putting demons in people.

I'm still inside this body.

[It's quiet, arms crossing over his chest as he sinks into thought.]

It's just that the power switch has been shut off. I'm trapped in it.

I'd tell you to take it up with someone who's got some knowledge of Voiding, but I wouldn't let any of the Nerd Herd from SERO spit on a ring of holy fire I was trapped in and they're the ones with all the research.

I'll pass.

[It's said ruefully as he glances down at his fingers, frowning thoughtfully.]

I'll conduct my own research. Maybe I'll give Sam some of my blood and see what happens.

[Making fun of Winchesters is always the key to feeling better.]

Oh, please don't. I hated Sam's demon blood cautionary tale arc and I hate reruns.

I see your point, but I raise the counter that I was fantastic during that season, even if it was off-screen.

[Crowley shrugs slightly, faintly amused.]

Everybody loves a rebel with a sassy accent.

[Their world is imploding and they're being stupidly meta.

Well, God is a hack writer. This had to happen one day.]

Until they get sick of you and try to murder you.

I'm just saying. I got out while the getting was good. Also, I hated the cut of the Team Free Will member jackets.

Where would the plot be without me? No offense, but heroes are a dime a dozen. Good villains are hard to come by. Dick Roman was pathetic in comparison to me, he had absolutely no sense of elegance, and Meg? Come on. Entrusting her with an evil plot is like giving an iPad to a four year old for Christmas; it just isn't done unless you want to cringe at the wasted potential.

[There is a soft sigh as he rolls his eyes to the ceiling.]

No, I bring a certain level of class and sophistication to our little sitcom that hasn't been seen since Lilith was around. And even she lost some of her grace when she decided that wearing a seven year old was a good idea, how last season.

Annnd that's what happens when you try to outplay the apocalypse. You get Dr. No and Goldfinger for the rest of your natural life.

[Buy a cat, Crowley. You basically just described a James Bond villain.]

I own Ian Fleming's soul.

[With a slight grin to himself as he reaches across his desk lazily, to reach for his bottle of scotch.]

Each villain has a bit of me in them as a result. I was downright inspirational.

Next time you paint someone gold to death, I wanna be there.

[...] Okay, seriously, though. Is there a soul you don't own?

Start listing them off, I'll let you know.

I always wondered about Marilyn.

Not mine, but I do own half of the Kennedy family for her resulting death.

Not even remotely surprised.

You totally have Bush and Cheney, right? [A beat. HE'S COUNTING ON HIS FINGERS.] ...They'd probably have to be really good at dodging hellhounds at this point if they're not dead yet.

Edited 2012-12-14 03:19 (UTC)

Both. They're still alive.

[With some amount of pleasure.]

I propositioned Obama and he declined.

29 [Video] | Forward dated to the 7th.

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