Fic: Climbing Out
Aug. 3rd, 2011 12:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
unikorentoTitle: Climbing Out
Author:unikorento
Fandom(s): Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Characters: Crowley, John
Rating: G
Word Count: 1973
Notes: Follows Purpose and Second Wind, and will probably make more sense if read after those. Set after 2x22, All Hell Breaks Loose: Part II. Assumes knowledge of later occurring characters. Many thanks totinypinkmouse and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lillannan for the beta.
Summary: There was a natural progression to when an evil thing had you tied down. First they asked things, then they said things, and then they hurt you until you died, and then it was supposed to start all over again. John knew that. But it didn't seem like Crowley did.
Crowley wasn't in the room all the time.
John didn't know where he went, but he was glad every time the motel room was empty. He imagined it reeked of sulphur, but whenever Crowley was there, all he could smell was the soft, clean undertone of cologne. Especially when he leaned in to speak to him. And Crowley did a lot of leaning in, and a lot of speaking. He did it in a low, scratchy whisper, right into John’s ear.
So John needed every second he could have for himself, every thought he could be sure of was just his, just him. Because when Crowley rested his hand at the back of John’s neck and whispered, everything he said made sense. It made eerie, unpleasant, perfect sense.
John knew a man should never listen to demons. More than one hunter had gotten turned around that way, and as a point, John never fell for that. John knew and hated demons like he was sure no one else could, but Crowley didn't act like any demon he'd ever met, like John knew he must want to.
There was a natural progression to these things, to when an evil thing had you tied down. First they asked things, then they said things, and then they hurt you until you died, and then it started all over again. Providing you didn't co-operate, that is.
John imagined it was different if you gave them what they wanted, but he'd never tried it that way. He never would. But with Crowley the cutting and slicing and burning never started. It was unnerving.
***
Crowley had tried to keep him in a devil's trap at first, but John had crossed the lines without feeling more than a slight pressure at his temples. He'd only gotten as far as the line of salt by the door, but that had been far enough. If he'd been like Crowley or Alastair, or all the others, then there wouldn't have been any need to chain him down. And even if the metal that chained him now was doused with holy water and salt and it burned, John held on to that little bit of confirmation like he'd held on to his "no" on the rack.
Leather straps kept him from being able to open his mouth, but he wasn't blindfolded. When Crowley was present, he didn’t circle him like Alastair had, slow and deliberate, to put him on edge. Crowley spoke, and John could keep an eye on him at all times. Crowley was a never-ending stream of words that John carefully tried not to listen to, but he failed to block them out as often as he managed to. The reason was embarrassing, but not hard to figure out.
John was curious, simple as that. Something had happened, and Crowley could have done a million things, gone to a million places. Yellow Eyes was dead, and John knew enough of the way things were, that he knew Crowley would have had options.
But this was what he'd chosen, and this was clearly a private project. Because options or no - Crowley wouldn't be wasting his time here if he had someone else he could send in to do it for him.
John liked that. It meant maybe Crowley was out on a limb. Maybe the plan wasn't fool-proof. At the very least, it meant he only had to get past one demon to get out.
***
On the fifth day (and John knew something about time, because he'd watched the sunlight filter through the blinds, and because there was clock on the wall, and he'd stared at it until he remembered having sat in a classroom once, and they had learned about seconds and minutes and hours) Crowley sat down opposite from him.
He was leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, saying something, and from the way his eyebrows were raised, John understood that he'd just been asked a question.
Crowley had placed a chair next to him. It was empty, except for one large, steaming styrofoam cup. The liquid in it was black, and it smelled strong and bitter. Without meaning to, John tried to shift away. He knew all about hot liquids, and what it was like when they got poured over you, but Crowley placed a hand on John's knee.
It surprised him enough that he looked up, and he knew that had been a mistake, because now he'd met Crowley's eyes.
"I thought you might like it," Crowley said, nodding to the cup, and John followed his gaze. "Might be a little on the nose, but then I thought - what better way to wake a man up than coffee, right?"
Crowley sounded gentle, and John knew for sure he was being played.
He didn't know how, though, and the frustration of it licked now familiar, white-hot flames inside his empty gut. For a minute, he let himself savour it, and promised himself he would tear Crowley apart once he got out of here. He imagined how he'd bleed every evil son of a bitch out there, slow and messy, and it would take them days to die. And he would start with Crowley.
Crowley. Who was just sitting there, expectant, waiting for John's gaze to focus, before he continued.
"You used to like it, I hear," he said conversationally, and his hand hadn't moved from John's leg. "Bet you anything you still would. Want to try?"
John met his eyes, forced himself to breathe evenly, calmly.
"It really is time to get over this whole catatonic act, John," Crowley said, and he sounded so damned reasonable, so damned patient, so damned familiar, that John knew there was something he'd forgotten, something he hadn't understood. And Crowley could see his hesitation, of course he could, and pressed on.
"I don't want to keep you tied up, honestly,” he said. “It's fun, I won't argue there, but it's a waste of time. I want you on your feet where you can do some good, and if that means having to let you..." he waved a hand irritably at the cup, "blunder your way through some inane pseudo-human experience, then I'll happily grant it. We've only got the one year here, so we have to speed this up."
John clenched his fists where they were, tied up behind his back, but he dropped his eyes before he'd even made the decision to do so. He didn't really know what he was being asked. And either way it wasn't like him to say yes to a demon, not ever.
But it didn't feel like it had with Alistair, where his gut had always had the answer. John didn't think he had any power here no matter if he nodded or shook his head, not yet.
Crowley had said he would release him, though, and that was a step in the right direction.
Crowley, either confusing hesitation for confirmation, or simply deciding it was good enough, circled the chair to tug at the restraints. John felt them come away, but before he had a chance to get up, he felt Crowley's hands circle his wrists in a hard grip and keep them in place.
"Just remember,” he whispered. “That if you spout more latin at me, lad, they'll be the last words you ever speak."
His breath was hot against John's ear, a contrast to the calm, flat tone of his voice and the vice-like grip of his hands.
"I'll make you eat a bag of salt, and leave you at the crossroads where I found you. You'll forget you were ever more than a lost, cold thing, and when the hunters find you, you'll spend eternity being Alastair's plaything. Do you understand me?"
And John nodded, properly this time, and felt something he thought might be humiliation. (It wasn’t fear, at least. John knew all about fear.)
Crowley let go, and John tore the straps from around his head and got up, rubbing at his jaw, and putting as much distance between the two of them as he reasonably could. In the back of his mind he felt a twinge as the body wanted to crumple down, starved and tired, but kept going because John willed it.
The room looked different from the new angle, and that change alone was enough to disorient John for a few moments. Through the blinds on the window, he could see asphalt, and a few cars, and behind the asphalt he could see pale, yellow, rugged rock jutting at the sky. A roadside pile, not a mountain, but now John remembered that there was such a thing as a mountain. He took that scrap of knowledge and folded it, gently, inside himself, to be looked at later.
The asphalt was a parking lot.
Faded, white lines marked the spaces for the cars, and from the way their mirrors hurt his eyes, John had the sudden impression that if he stepped outside in his bare feet, the ground would be scorching hot. The world was bathed in unforgiving daylight, that reflected off any surface it could, and soaked its way into anything standing still long enough.
He could have spent another five days just standing there, and let the impressions remind him of new things until he knew that much more, but that was when Crowley shifted, just a little, to calmly put his hands in his pockets. It was the least threatening move he could make, but it helped John focus on the here and now.
And the stupid cup of coffee on the chair.
He glanced at Crowley, who looked away to pretend he was examining the artwork on the wall, pretending to give John privacy. And that didn't make a lick of sense, but beggars couldn't be choosers, so John picked up the paper mug. It was degrading, like feeding time for an animal, but John wanted to know. If it was something he'd used to like, he needed to know.
The cup felt warm in his hands, too warm for comfort, and the body wanted to drop it instantly. John didn't allow it, choosing instead to shift his grip a little, to hold on to the protective cardboard sheet wrapped around it. That was better, less hot.
There was nothing covering the top of it, and John peered at the black sloshing around. Black like demon's eyes. And maybe it was a trick? But he had to know.
He took it to his lips, slow and careful, and sipped.
It was bitter. Bitter and horrible, and it made John grimace. He huffed a breath after he swallowed, steeling himself, and sipped again almost immediately, his heart setting up a fast, violent beat.
The liquid burned his tongue and tasted bad and, and Crowley had told the truth. John knew this. He knew this. He'd drank this, at a table, with two boys sitting by him. He'd drank it in a car. In a kitchen. At a police station. He liked it with milk, no sugar, but black would do just as well.
Some of it must have shown on his face. He must have made a noise, or moved, or something, because Crowley turned to look at him, expectantly.
"All better now?" he asked, condescending and amused, like he'd proved some kind of point. "Ready to talk like a grown up?"
And maybe he had. John didn't know. He swallowed, and decided he would drink the rest more slowly.
"You said we only have one year," he said, and tried his best not to be surprised at the sound of what was probably his own voice. It was light and thin, and hoarse with disuse. It didn't remind John of anything.
"What happens in a year?"
Author:
unikorentoFandom(s): Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Characters: Crowley, John
Rating: G
Word Count: 1973
Notes: Follows Purpose and Second Wind, and will probably make more sense if read after those. Set after 2x22, All Hell Breaks Loose: Part II. Assumes knowledge of later occurring characters. Many thanks to
tinypinkmouse and lillannan for the beta.Summary: There was a natural progression to when an evil thing had you tied down. First they asked things, then they said things, and then they hurt you until you died, and then it was supposed to start all over again. John knew that. But it didn't seem like Crowley did.
Crowley wasn't in the room all the time.
John didn't know where he went, but he was glad every time the motel room was empty. He imagined it reeked of sulphur, but whenever Crowley was there, all he could smell was the soft, clean undertone of cologne. Especially when he leaned in to speak to him. And Crowley did a lot of leaning in, and a lot of speaking. He did it in a low, scratchy whisper, right into John’s ear.
So John needed every second he could have for himself, every thought he could be sure of was just his, just him. Because when Crowley rested his hand at the back of John’s neck and whispered, everything he said made sense. It made eerie, unpleasant, perfect sense.
John knew a man should never listen to demons. More than one hunter had gotten turned around that way, and as a point, John never fell for that. John knew and hated demons like he was sure no one else could, but Crowley didn't act like any demon he'd ever met, like John knew he must want to.
There was a natural progression to these things, to when an evil thing had you tied down. First they asked things, then they said things, and then they hurt you until you died, and then it started all over again. Providing you didn't co-operate, that is.
John imagined it was different if you gave them what they wanted, but he'd never tried it that way. He never would. But with Crowley the cutting and slicing and burning never started. It was unnerving.
***
Crowley had tried to keep him in a devil's trap at first, but John had crossed the lines without feeling more than a slight pressure at his temples. He'd only gotten as far as the line of salt by the door, but that had been far enough. If he'd been like Crowley or Alastair, or all the others, then there wouldn't have been any need to chain him down. And even if the metal that chained him now was doused with holy water and salt and it burned, John held on to that little bit of confirmation like he'd held on to his "no" on the rack.
Leather straps kept him from being able to open his mouth, but he wasn't blindfolded. When Crowley was present, he didn’t circle him like Alastair had, slow and deliberate, to put him on edge. Crowley spoke, and John could keep an eye on him at all times. Crowley was a never-ending stream of words that John carefully tried not to listen to, but he failed to block them out as often as he managed to. The reason was embarrassing, but not hard to figure out.
John was curious, simple as that. Something had happened, and Crowley could have done a million things, gone to a million places. Yellow Eyes was dead, and John knew enough of the way things were, that he knew Crowley would have had options.
But this was what he'd chosen, and this was clearly a private project. Because options or no - Crowley wouldn't be wasting his time here if he had someone else he could send in to do it for him.
John liked that. It meant maybe Crowley was out on a limb. Maybe the plan wasn't fool-proof. At the very least, it meant he only had to get past one demon to get out.
***
On the fifth day (and John knew something about time, because he'd watched the sunlight filter through the blinds, and because there was clock on the wall, and he'd stared at it until he remembered having sat in a classroom once, and they had learned about seconds and minutes and hours) Crowley sat down opposite from him.
He was leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, saying something, and from the way his eyebrows were raised, John understood that he'd just been asked a question.
Crowley had placed a chair next to him. It was empty, except for one large, steaming styrofoam cup. The liquid in it was black, and it smelled strong and bitter. Without meaning to, John tried to shift away. He knew all about hot liquids, and what it was like when they got poured over you, but Crowley placed a hand on John's knee.
It surprised him enough that he looked up, and he knew that had been a mistake, because now he'd met Crowley's eyes.
"I thought you might like it," Crowley said, nodding to the cup, and John followed his gaze. "Might be a little on the nose, but then I thought - what better way to wake a man up than coffee, right?"
Crowley sounded gentle, and John knew for sure he was being played.
He didn't know how, though, and the frustration of it licked now familiar, white-hot flames inside his empty gut. For a minute, he let himself savour it, and promised himself he would tear Crowley apart once he got out of here. He imagined how he'd bleed every evil son of a bitch out there, slow and messy, and it would take them days to die. And he would start with Crowley.
Crowley. Who was just sitting there, expectant, waiting for John's gaze to focus, before he continued.
"You used to like it, I hear," he said conversationally, and his hand hadn't moved from John's leg. "Bet you anything you still would. Want to try?"
John met his eyes, forced himself to breathe evenly, calmly.
"It really is time to get over this whole catatonic act, John," Crowley said, and he sounded so damned reasonable, so damned patient, so damned familiar, that John knew there was something he'd forgotten, something he hadn't understood. And Crowley could see his hesitation, of course he could, and pressed on.
"I don't want to keep you tied up, honestly,” he said. “It's fun, I won't argue there, but it's a waste of time. I want you on your feet where you can do some good, and if that means having to let you..." he waved a hand irritably at the cup, "blunder your way through some inane pseudo-human experience, then I'll happily grant it. We've only got the one year here, so we have to speed this up."
John clenched his fists where they were, tied up behind his back, but he dropped his eyes before he'd even made the decision to do so. He didn't really know what he was being asked. And either way it wasn't like him to say yes to a demon, not ever.
But it didn't feel like it had with Alistair, where his gut had always had the answer. John didn't think he had any power here no matter if he nodded or shook his head, not yet.
Crowley had said he would release him, though, and that was a step in the right direction.
Crowley, either confusing hesitation for confirmation, or simply deciding it was good enough, circled the chair to tug at the restraints. John felt them come away, but before he had a chance to get up, he felt Crowley's hands circle his wrists in a hard grip and keep them in place.
"Just remember,” he whispered. “That if you spout more latin at me, lad, they'll be the last words you ever speak."
His breath was hot against John's ear, a contrast to the calm, flat tone of his voice and the vice-like grip of his hands.
"I'll make you eat a bag of salt, and leave you at the crossroads where I found you. You'll forget you were ever more than a lost, cold thing, and when the hunters find you, you'll spend eternity being Alastair's plaything. Do you understand me?"
And John nodded, properly this time, and felt something he thought might be humiliation. (It wasn’t fear, at least. John knew all about fear.)
Crowley let go, and John tore the straps from around his head and got up, rubbing at his jaw, and putting as much distance between the two of them as he reasonably could. In the back of his mind he felt a twinge as the body wanted to crumple down, starved and tired, but kept going because John willed it.
The room looked different from the new angle, and that change alone was enough to disorient John for a few moments. Through the blinds on the window, he could see asphalt, and a few cars, and behind the asphalt he could see pale, yellow, rugged rock jutting at the sky. A roadside pile, not a mountain, but now John remembered that there was such a thing as a mountain. He took that scrap of knowledge and folded it, gently, inside himself, to be looked at later.
The asphalt was a parking lot.
Faded, white lines marked the spaces for the cars, and from the way their mirrors hurt his eyes, John had the sudden impression that if he stepped outside in his bare feet, the ground would be scorching hot. The world was bathed in unforgiving daylight, that reflected off any surface it could, and soaked its way into anything standing still long enough.
He could have spent another five days just standing there, and let the impressions remind him of new things until he knew that much more, but that was when Crowley shifted, just a little, to calmly put his hands in his pockets. It was the least threatening move he could make, but it helped John focus on the here and now.
And the stupid cup of coffee on the chair.
He glanced at Crowley, who looked away to pretend he was examining the artwork on the wall, pretending to give John privacy. And that didn't make a lick of sense, but beggars couldn't be choosers, so John picked up the paper mug. It was degrading, like feeding time for an animal, but John wanted to know. If it was something he'd used to like, he needed to know.
The cup felt warm in his hands, too warm for comfort, and the body wanted to drop it instantly. John didn't allow it, choosing instead to shift his grip a little, to hold on to the protective cardboard sheet wrapped around it. That was better, less hot.
There was nothing covering the top of it, and John peered at the black sloshing around. Black like demon's eyes. And maybe it was a trick? But he had to know.
He took it to his lips, slow and careful, and sipped.
It was bitter. Bitter and horrible, and it made John grimace. He huffed a breath after he swallowed, steeling himself, and sipped again almost immediately, his heart setting up a fast, violent beat.
The liquid burned his tongue and tasted bad and, and Crowley had told the truth. John knew this. He knew this. He'd drank this, at a table, with two boys sitting by him. He'd drank it in a car. In a kitchen. At a police station. He liked it with milk, no sugar, but black would do just as well.
Some of it must have shown on his face. He must have made a noise, or moved, or something, because Crowley turned to look at him, expectantly.
"All better now?" he asked, condescending and amused, like he'd proved some kind of point. "Ready to talk like a grown up?"
And maybe he had. John didn't know. He swallowed, and decided he would drink the rest more slowly.
"You said we only have one year," he said, and tried his best not to be surprised at the sound of what was probably his own voice. It was light and thin, and hoarse with disuse. It didn't remind John of anything.
"What happens in a year?"
no subject
Date: 2011-08-03 05:20 pm (UTC)I like the suspenseful feel of this game of cat-and-mouse between John and Crowley...very effective.
Well done!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-03 07:06 pm (UTC)I love Crowley. And not just because he wears a black suit - though that's definitely part of the appeal. That, and being Mark Sheppard. Things are just always more... interesting when he's around :P
no subject
Date: 2011-08-03 08:28 pm (UTC)