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A Singularity of Crowleys

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It was a fine day. Which isn’t saying much since many days were fine. But it truly was a fine day. Blue skies, warm soil, a beautiful sunrise, and just a hint of cinnamon scenting the air.

Sadly, this most lovely day was disregarded by the inhabitants of a certain auto shop. (Said auto shop was actually the home and base of hunter(witchfinders, But American. Ish. It’s all very confusing) Bobby Singer and his two sorta-kinda-adopted children.

It was even more disregarded by the human-shaped being currently sitting in the living room, bound to a chair, and within a devils trap. However, this could be reasonably understood seeing as said man-shaped being hadn’t had a chance to see the fine day, for he had been summoned right to where he now sat.

“Do we really have to do all this boys? Even after all we’ve gone through together?”

Dean — the elder of the sorta-kinda-adopted hunter brothers — growled. “The Colt didn’t work!! You lied to us, you son of a bitch!”

Crowley — for that was indeed his name — widened his eyes. “Well I didn’t know it wouldn’t. A demon can hope.”

This was, of course, utterly false. The demon had suspected that it wouldn’t work on himself, and, if it didnt, it most certainly wouldn’t work on the Morningstar.

“Well we lost people because of your ‘mistake’, pal.”

“And I’m sorry to hear that. Truly.”

Sam — the younger brother —- rolled his eyes. “Sure. You’re a demon, you don’t care about anyone.”

Crowley’s eyes flickered to the trap spray painted to the floor and winced. He could break out of course, a simple demonic miracle would take care of it all, but that would expose him to the Winchesters. The demon happened to be quite fond of the ruse he had built up around himself. Ever since he had been promoted he had simply let the bottom feeders think what they would. Ligur was dead, Satan damn, and Hastur….well he hadn’t heard from him in a while. He was still alive, oh yes, but Crowley didn’t happen to know his whereabouts. (The duke of hell was moping in the depths of hell, waiting for the resurrected bits of his friend to reform. Beelzebub happened to like Ligur.) the only one in the relevant hell food chain who knew whom Crowley truly was was Beelzebub. Everyone else was under the impression that he was the Scottish son of a witch, (He wasn’t. He’d made a deal with the man which countered a previous deal under the conditions that he could use his body as a vessel (or meatsuit, as the Winchester brothers preferred to call them)) and he’d like to keep it that way.

“You got me there, Moose. But what brought this up? I risked life and limb AND MY TAILOR for you to take down Lucifer! The Apocalypse was averted! The colt didn’t work, boo hoo. Lucy’s in the cage, you’ve got your soul back, Squirrel isn’t Michael’s meatsuit, and your Bobby is alive!” He gestured at the man, who tipped his baseball cap. “Good kisser, by the way.”

Dean almost choked. “Did not need to know that.”

“Well now you do.” He shrugged. “But what do you want with little old me? I’ve got business to do, Hell to run, you know.”

The elder brother held up a water bottle, smirking. “Ya know what this is?”

Oh fuck




Dean watched in confusion as Crowlsy flinched heavily.

“You’re bluffing.”

His voice was shaky.

“Nope! 100% real holy water. Heard it stings like a bitch.”

“That’s a blessed understatement..” Crowley muttered, eyes wide.

Dean turned and leaned over to Sam. “Sammy, what’s he mean?”

“I..I don’t know. Most demons don’t react like this…”

The crossroads demon apparently heard them, because he laughed. It was a cruel sound, not a true carefree laugh. “Of course they don’t. Yer regular black-eyed demons will just make a run for, and all they have to worry about is discorperation. Which hurts like bloody Manchester.”

The brothers blinked at him. “Now listen here, Crowley.” Sam took the vial from his big brother (who was standing next to him protectively) “we want to know what you’re doing with Castiel.”

Eyes widened slightly, just enough for Dean to notice.

“I have no idea what you mean, boys. I haven’t seen wing nor feather of Cassie boy since the apocalypssse. I don’t make a general rule of associating with angelssss.”

Affronted, Sam raises an eyebrow. “Did you just hiss at me?”

“Oh don’t think you’re ssspecial. It happensss.”

Dean shook his head. “You’re nervous.”


“Well then, tell me what you want with Cas.” Dean growled, hand on the cap of the bottle.

“I don’t want anything!”

“Then why is there a feather on your coat?”

Crowley gained an incredibly pained expression on his face and mouthed something. Something which sadly, the brothers and Bobby were unable to decipher. (It was, ‘seriously? Angel, you’re shedding’)

Dean smirked. “Tell us.”

“I told you!!!”

He uncapped the bottle, and, with a nod from Sam, tossed some holy water onto Crowley.

“What the—? Son of a bitch!!” Dean exclaimed as the water smoked, vicious burns forming on the demon.

Crowley screamed, eyes closing tightly as the skin on his neck was etched away.

“That hasn’t happened before, has it?” Sam asked Bobby worriedly.

“No. It hasn’t.”


They all froze.

“What?” Dean glowered.

“It’s not his feather.” The king of the crossroads whimpered; this was highly uncharacteristic of the demon and made the hunters highly uncomfortable.

“Then whose is it?”

Crowley ignored him. “Your boyfriend come to me.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

“Sure. He came to me, you idiots. I gave him a suggestion, he’s ignored me ever since and I already figured out what I needed anyway. Your angel’s having his own trouble in Heaven, I don’t want it to affect hell.”

“That…” dean was at a loss for words.

“...sounds reasonable.” Sam finished.

“Course it does, you bloody Manchester blessed imbeciles.” Crowley shook his head before hissing in pain. He mumbled something, and Dean strained to hear it. myself a situation here…”

“Something to say?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. Was the demon praying?

“Not to you.” He glared.

All of a sudden, the entire building shook.

“What the Hell??” The hunters were completely perplexed. This wasn’t a common occurrence.

“Heaven actually.” A steely British voice sounded out.

“Angel…” Crowley choked out.

“Crowley?” A man, looking to be in his early 30s, with the most cherubic face and dressed in cream and tartan rushes into the room. It was of Dean’s strong belief that this man quite looked how angels were supposed to look, warm and kindly and all. “Oh dear what have they done to you?”

“Holy water…” he murmured, falling onto the man? Angel? As the devils trap was broken and the ties undone.

The new man turned to face the hunters. “What gives you the right.” He intoned in a dangerous quiet voice. “What gives you the right??!”


“Oh...well...alright dearest.” Angel? Hugged Crowley — an angel hugging a demon!!!? — and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean?” Sam sounded highly confused, and dean quite agreed with his brother.

“You could’ve killed him.”

“Course he would’ve...Squirrel thought I was messing with his angel…”

“Oh dear boy, no need to worry about that. Crowley has me.” He said with an angelic smile before kissing the demon gently. “Don’t scare me like that. I thought I’d find you melted.”

“Yeah yeah...just take me home Angel.”


And so they disappeared, leaving the three American hunters behind with no clue as to what had just happened.

It was a nice day. Blue skies and a generally nice temperature. A lovely day. And a thoroughly perplexing one for some.