Author: Kat Lee
Challenge/Prompt: comment_fic: Crowley+/Any, what burns more than whiskey? requested by untldeathtakeme
Word Count: 485
Date Written: 22 June 2018
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to Kripke, not the author, and are used without permission.
Crowley slammed his glass down with a growl. His minions scurried away from him, but he lifted his hand and aimed a finger at a couple of them. Even seeing them go up into fiery blazes wasn’t helping tonight, nor was the burn of the whiskey. Nothing was helping.
He sighed and glared down into his glass. “Squirrel, what the Hell have you done to me?” he muttered. He’d never felt anything that hurt this much in his life, and he knew he had the Winchesters entirely to blame for it. They’d wanted to humanize him, the damn twerps, and they’d succeeded in doing so more than he was ever going to let them know, especially Dean. He’d never admit aloud that the mortal had such power over him.
He slung the remaining whiskey down the back of his throat and slammed the glass on the table again. “MORE!” he roared. When no one came running to refill his glass, he bellowed again, “OR I’LL TAKE MORE OF YOU MORONS TO KILL!” That made three scamper to his aid. Each one held a bottle of whiskey. One filled his glass while the other two stuck the tiny umbrellas he normally liked into them.
“BOLLOCKS!” Crowley roared. They jumped, trembling pathetically from the tops of their heads through to the very bottoms of their soles. He snatched two of the bottles of whiskey and vanished. It was time he went to find some mortals the Winchesters didn’t know about to slaughter. He needed some good fun, an actual release, and although the whiskey wasn’t working tonight, he still took it along for the ride.
Some bloody something somewhere was going to get that damn Squirrel out of his system -- or, at least, he’d get so knackered along the way he’d no longer be thinking, remembering what Dean’s touches felt like and how much it burned to be without him and know that he’d never win his love or even his admiration! It was a crying shame he couldn’t just force the human to love him. He could do so so very easily, and had at one point, but it just wasn’t the same. He knew the difference too damn well. He didn’t want Dean to just love him because he forced him to.
He ached for him to choose him over his brother, over doing the right, over bloody Angel, over everything, and Crowley knew he never would. “Bloody gits,” he muttered as he started striking down every mortal he saw, but he knew the sad truth was he was the bloody git and there was no fixing this damn mess. He roared and slayed, and still he loved. And inside of him, in a part that wasn’t supposed to exist but which the damn hunters had somehow found a way to make a work again, in his deep, no-longer-as-black soul and his heart, Crowley cried.