sirenspull_logs | but it was not your fault but mine

Entry tags:

castiel,
crowley

but it was not your fault but mine

Who: Crowley [

integrity] and Castiel [

ofthursday]
When: May 17th, 4:00 AM.
Where: Crowley ~~and friend~~'s house.
Summary: Crowley is super feverish and sick from the guilt plague passing around. He feels this is a perfectly reasonable time to try and talk Castiel out of something. After he wanders around his house and bitches like an idiot for awhile.
Warnings: Crowley is feverish and probably half-drunk because that is clearly how to kill a plague caused by 42,000 years of accumulated guilt. Clearly.

The needing to breathe was bizarre.

He knew he didn't really have to breathe, but it helped soothe the rattling in his lungs and the ache in his chest. Lying down probably wasn't helping, either -- Crowley couldn't actually remember the last time he had to deal with something like this. The pains of mortality -- the virii and the bacteria battling away in his body like some kind of gruesome warzone.

He had been trying to figure out what had caused this illness. Why he was so harshly affected when some people weren't ill at all. He was a powerful demon -- the powerful demon -- surely he could fend off some silly illness? But perhaps that was the point, Crowley thought, as he stared at the ceiling, the sleeping form of his dog pressed against his side. Maybe it targeted the powerful instead of the weak.

But that, too, made little sense -- Anna wasn't nearly as ill as he was. And he hadn't bothered to speak to the other angels save for Castiel, who was sick, too. Almost as sick as Crowley was, though the demon had threatened to banish Castiel from the room if he didn't leave him alone about six hours ago. Something had probably changed. He was probably worse, knowing their combined horrific luck. They couldn't even live in the same area without almost dying from something stupid.

Maybe it was some kind of punishment for ruining the world.

The demon tilted his head slightly, at the stray thought, fever (and probably the six bottles of scotch he had ingested that day) causing his thoughts to become a little rattled, eyes narrowing at the ceiling. The ornate designs of carved wood support beams, the paint, the delicate brushstrokes of whoever had decorated, the --

No, go back to the original thought. Ruining the world. Maybe this was some kind of twisted karma. Some sort of ridiculous curse set upon us by the corporations. Bad people suffer bad things, news at eleven. Twelve. What time is it?

"Even my inner monologue is broken," Crowley muttered to no one in particular, one hand resting on the dog to shove himself up to sitting, a rattling cough escaping as he did so. "I can't even have a bloody conversation with myself without being distracted by a damn sneeze, I'm beginning to turn into Castiel."

And, suddenly, Crowley was in the kitchen, a hand slamming into place to catch himself on the counter as Growley stretched, bones creaking, before she settled back onto the floor. The hound always knew what her master wanted, after all, and what her master wanted was --

"We are out of the stupid Popsicles the idiot made me buy," Crowley said irately, closing the freezer with a slam that almost sent him to the ground. "I bought the stupid things because he whined and now they aren't even here. No one in this household needs to eat, where does all the food go?"

The effect of this rant was somewhat lost when Crowley's normally authoritative voice was marred by illness. It came out somewhat whispery.

Still loud enough to be an annoyance, though.

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The popsicles were gone because Castiel had eaten them. That was why he'd wanted them in the first place, after all; they were blue flavoured, which Castiel had acquired a taste for.

He's also acquired a sore throat, hence the need for popsicles, and for comfort in general. He was curled up on the couch in the living room, wrapped in several blankets, remembering how often he'd spent incredibly weak and unwell on this couch a few months previously, and others before when he'd been regaining his powers. He'd been sick or injured more often than not at the Port for a long while, and he'd finally started getting past it.

But there he was, shivering under the blankets, pale and nauseous and feverish. His head hurt, his throat hurt, his whole body hurt, and he felt heavy and light all at once. He hated this, and he didn't understand; he shouldn't be able to be sick.

One of the rabbits was on the couch with him, laying on his chest as he breathed is quiet rasps, it's nose and ears twitching with Castiel's movements. Abaddon was snoring next to the couch as well, utterly unaware of his master's current state.

Castiel heard Crowley, though, arrive in the kitchen; he opened his eyes and lifted his head slightly from the arm of the couch, but didn't bother to speak. He was pretty sure he'd just end up in a coughing fit instead.

There was a soft padding of paws as Growley moved into the living room, carefully nosing at her puppy before she lifted him easily, to tuck him in on the couch against Castiel, underneath the blankets. The hellhound didn't know why they were so sick -- she was visibly nervous, especially, by Crowley's weakness -- but warmth seemed to help. And Abaddon wasn't doing anything at the moment but sleep, so he could certainly help keep Castiel warm, too.

Crowley appeared in an instant next to the couch and promptly caught himself on the back of his dog, to keep from falling over. Teleportation was a stupid thing to do, but Crowley was still having difficulty accepting the fact that he was ill in the first place.

"You ate them," Crowley accused quietly, though there was little bitterness in the tone as he looked over how ill Castiel was. There was a moment or two of pause before the demon sank slowly into a chair. "You're worse," he added, flicking his fingers at his dog, who promptly vanished and returned in order to fetch more blankets, for both Castiel and Crowley.

Castiel appreciated the moving of his puppy to the couch with him, reaching a hand from under the blankets to pat Growley gently on the head both in thanks and to try to calm her. She seemed nervous.

He was startled, briefly, by Crowley's teleportation; normally he wouldn't be, but he was so haggard and fried that his senses weren't telling him what they should. At the comment about the popsicles he nodded and tried to respond, only to end up in a coughing fit that sent the bunny running and Abaddon waking up with a snort.

He gave up on talking about the desserts, then, instead focusing on the other thing Crowley had said. "Yes." His voice was surprisingly faint to his ears, and even raspier than normal. "Suddenly." He'd been doing alright until just a few hours ago, when his minor symptoms had turned serious in an incredibly short span of time.

Crowley was busy wrapping a blanket loosely around himself, idly fuming at how ridiculous this was. He was a demon, goddammit, not some weak-willed mortal thing who died at the tiniest hint of swine flu. But even he recognized that he was freezing and needed warmth, so when Growley reappeared suddenly with his down comforter (that he never used), he accepted it without argument.

"Kitten," Crowley murmured, allowing his dog to rest her head in his lap. But the statement seemed to be lost to a vague string of thoughts and the demon sighed, letting the question he was going to ask slip away as he sunk into his chair. He couldn't work up the energy to care about theorizing possible causes for a virus that he shouldn't even have. Who cared.

Maybe it's punishment for ruining the world.

"Chuck told me why Magneto died," Crowley said suddenly, his voice quiet, fingers carefully tucking themselves into the hellhound's collar. "What he found in SERO's labs."

Castiel adjusted his own blankets along with the ones Growley had brought him, remembering all too well the feeling of being cold all the time and trying to keep those thoughts at bay. Instead he just watched Crowley, laying his head down on the arm of the couch once again, closing his eyes until the demon spoke.

"What did he find?" He managed to ask before falling into coughing again, a strange tickling and pressure in his chest whenever he breathed and worse when he spoke.

"Angel DNA in test-tubes. Gabriel's. Growing mutant forms for some purpose."

Crowley's eyes were closed, his fingers idly scratching at his dog's neck as he spoke softly.

"You won't be visiting SERO in the near future, obviously."

Oh. Oh.

"Does Gabriel know?" He kind of... Should have been told. But who knows if someone had. How would SERO have Gabriel's DNA anyway? Castiel didn't have the whole story, but this definitely explained Michael's overreaction.

He frowned at Crowley's next comment, even though his eyes were barely open. "No, this is all the more reason to." And that was way too many words, and Castiel fell into another coughing fit that ended with a retching noise like he was considering throwing up on Crowley's expensive carpet. He might be.

Crowley immediately twitched his fingers -- and a bucket appeared, near the couch. He wasn't having Castiel throw up on his carpet, thank you.

But Crowley, too, seemed to have wasted his energy on speaking, and he sunk lower into his chair, carefully focusing on his dog. It took a few long moments before he worked up the energy to speak again, but it was faint.

"It's not going to be you is -- "

There was a painful sensation in his chest as he inhaled deeply, to try to get out the next words -- and he looked irritated before he opened his mind to the angel, thinking -- he loathed the idea of praying -- instead.

It's not going to be you, is my point.

Oh good, a bucket. This wasn't humiliating at all; Castiel, angel of the Lord and general of the army in Heaven was now covered if he had to throw up blue flavoured popsicle. Great.

"Who else?" He managed to ask, and even put some tone into it. Who else would be suited for it? As an angel, he might even have an advantage in this, considering the subject was angels. He'd have to be very careful, sure, but that didn't mean he couldn't do it. And he was suited to SERO far better than AGI, which is why they'd decided on this arrangement.

"We'll switch."

Sending Castiel into a hotbed of scientific activity when they want angel DNA was a stupid idea. It annoyed him, slightly, that it was stupid, but it was. Sending Castiel into AGI was equally stupid, but at least Crowley had the savoir faire to navigate SERO without getting himself killed. Castiel, however intelligent he was, didn't know how to read people. And that was what was going to keep either of them alive and un-Voided in SERO's ranks.

"Oh of course. That plan is so much better." Castiel managed with a layer of heavy sarcasm under his weak voice, and his stomach lurched again but he managed to hold it down. He was frustrated, though, and what was he going to do at AGI? He didn't understand the company in the slightest. He could do technical and scientific research; he could fit into SERO, but he would stand out so obviously in the midst of AGI.

Crowley tossed him a withering look, at the tone, but ignored him. Castiel had a point, naturally, but Crowley was choosing not to argue it because he knew Castiel would have that point, and it was annoying, because he was supposed to just shut up and not have a point because his point was stupid.

Stupidly right was still stupid, after all.

"What were you doing when you got worse?" Crowley asked, finally, tugging his dog a little closer by her collar.

"Walking across the room." And okay, talking was a bad idea, and he leaned over the edge of the couch and threw up in the bucket; thankfully the only thing he'd eaten any time recently was popsicles, though that did lead to the strange fact that...

"It's blue." Castiel remarked, some combination of dazed and disgusted, though he felt a lot better all of a sudden.

Crowley stared at him, for a long moment, before he groaned and closed his eyes.

"I hate you."

And then --

"More details. Where were you walking. What were you doing before that. Why -- "

Obviously Crowley didn't give a shit that talking made Castiel worse, because he needed something to do in order to distract himself from the fact that his lungs felt like they wanted to collapse.

Unfortunately for Crowley, though, talking made him worse, too -- and he soon dissolved into a fit of coughing before he stubbornly kept talking, though his voice was almost comically quiet.

" -- why the sharp decline."

That was okay; Castiel hated a lot of things, including Crowley at that moment. He hadn't thrown up since the last few days of giving Sam his blood when everything had started to get drastically worse, and he was getting really tired of the reminders of that time. And throwing up wasn't fun anyway.

"I don't know." His stomach heaved again at the words, but thankfully there was nothing left in it, so he recovered quickly. "I ate the popsicles and was going to go see what you were doing." And then his head had started to hurt incredibly, and he'd suddenly felt so weak it had been hard to get to the couch.

Whatever this illness was, it was hitting really hard and fast.

To go from being relatively fine to extremely not fine was something that was alarming. Crowley was silent, for a moment or two, before he abruptly moved forward to sit on the edge of the couch, shoving Abaddon out of the way to stare down at Castiel. He ignored his own bodily aches and pains, his own illness -- he was born of Hell. This was relatively easy to ignore.

Besides, he had work to do.

Crowley was, at heart, a scientist. A logical individual that could see through the bullshit and get straight at the heart of the problem. If he could figure out the keys to unlocking Purgatory, surely he could deduce the origin of a cold. Examining himself was out of the question, but here he had another specimen to pick apart.

Or, well. Prod. He figured Castiel would object to a dissection.

"If you throw up on me, I will kill you," Crowley warned, feeling dizzy and unbalanced, but determined as he carefully prodded at Castiel, to see what, exactly, was wrong with him. How high his fever was, whether or not his eyes were clouded, signs of dehydration in a being that shouldn't have to worry about it.

Castiel watched the demon move, dully, and Abaddon snorted and rolled off the couch. The angel frowned in displeasure as Crowley began to examine him, feeling pinned in, but he controlled it for the moment as it was obvious Crowley was just trying to figure out what was going on.

Neither of them should be sick. This would be a curiosity to him too if Castiel didn't feel like he was going to pass out, and so he held still to allow Crowley to check out his symptoms. He was pale, cold except for a massive fever, eyes dark and hazy. His breathing was shallow and raspy, and every so often he shuddered with chills. This sucked, really bad.

Crowley didn't look any better -- in fact, he might have even looked a little worse -- but the demon was excellent at controlling it. He refused to pass out or give into the illness because he needed to figure out how to stop it. And the more information he had, the more use he would be.

The fact that he hadn't vomited yet spoke greatly of his willpower.

The symptoms seemed similar, Crowley realized, as he forced himself to focus, as was the rate of contamination. They both got sick rapidly, with no warning whatsoever -- living in close quarters probably did it. As Crowley was ill first, it was probably Crowley that passed it onto Castiel -- and with that thought, Crowley coughed into his sleeve before looking cross.

And then he shoved a thermometer into Castiel's mouth.

"Don't talk," Crowley ordered weakly.

It took approximately half a second, even with Castiel's dulled reaction time from illness, for him to spit the thermometer right back at the demon and sit up on reflex. The latter was a bad idea though, as the world suddenly spun violently and his vision blacked out, causing him to slump forward against Crowley's shoulder in a faint.

The tense moment between Castiel suddenly sitting up and then pitching forward against Crowley's shoulder was, to the demon, a considerably long one. While he trusted Castiel not to do anything stupid in his presence, he was still an angel, and when unpredictable -- well, that could spell death for a demon like him.

The sudden weight didn't do much for Crowley's state of being, though -- and the demon immediately was held upward by his dog as he weakly tried to shove Castiel backwards.

"Kitten, wake up before I send you to the emergency room and you wake up in a bloody hospital again," Crowley growled underneath his breath as he shoved again at the angel, to get him off of him.

It was not working out very well.

"I understand I possess a certain amount of rougish charm, but get off," Crowley hissed, this time going for exasperation and frustration. Surely being somewhat inappropriate would cause the angel to snap back out of unconsciousness.

Nope.

"Get off of me or I am ripping out Dean Winchester's stomach and feeding it to my dog," Crowley wheezed, his free hand dropping to the side, exhausted.

Castiel heard Crowley's voice, hazily, as he spoke to him, and felt the demon shoving at him. But he couldn't manage to open his eyes or pull together enough strength to move for some time, until the last threat, which was surely hollow but gave him the strength to open his eyes. He shifted, just slightly, and fell back against the couch as he had been before, eyes hazy and breathing shallow. This was all taking too much effort, and once again, he remembered a few months before, laying on the ground in the HoA and drifting in and out of consciousness, while Magneto tended to him.

That memory caused enough of a spark of adrenaline for him to blink a few times and clear his vision a bit more, staring up at Crowley and coming a bit more back to coherency. "This isn't--" And then he cut off for another coughing fit.

Whatever Castiel was thinking was lost to the demon. Normally, he prided himself on being able to read the angel better than most anyone else in the Port, but Crowley was so ill that he was lucky he was sitting up straight. Even so, he had a hand on Castiel's shoulder -- both to keep the angel from getting up again and to steady himself. Whether or not there was more emphasis on the latter piece of reasoning was never to be discovered.

"Isn't what," Crowley muttered, casting a glance to his dog.

They needed water. Basic sustenance. Vitamins, minerals. Things their hosts obviously couldn't make on their own at the moment.

And the dog abruptly vanished to get them just that.

"This isn't right. It shouldn't be happening." It was faint, and he was so focused on trying to speak without coughing that he was able to ignore the demon's hand on his shoulder. All of this was wrong and it was bad, and he didn't know what to do.

"But it is. Stop whining. Be useful."

It was a hoarse order as Crowley, once again, pushed the thermometer near Castiel, but he didn't shove it into his mouth again.

"Put this in your mouth. Spit it on me again and I will break this shoulder with the last ounce of -- "

And Crowley bit the inside of his cheek hard to keep the coughing at bay, chest heaving abruptly at the containment of the noise.

" -- strength I have," the demon finished.

Right. Be useful. He didn't know how to be in this situation, but it seemed Crowley did, so he listened and this time he took the thermometer without protest and placed it awkwardly in his mouth. He wasn't entirely sure what this would accomplish, but fine.

He laid there quietly if a bit uncomfortably until the thermometer beeped, reading out 103F. Castiel frowned at it. "Humans are supposed to be colder." He remarked, then rolled to the side to cough once again.

"Your temperature rose four and a half degrees in three and a half hours."

Presumably. Crowley hadn't been monitoring either of their temperatures on an hour-by-hour basis, which was stupid, on his part. He hadn't thought of it until now. He was too busy trying to figure out why he was sick in the first place and feeling sorry for himself. Stupid. That was stupid.

He fell silent, then, quietly focusing on something other than the fact that he very much wanted to pass out. The disease was attacking a variety of people, humans, angels, demons -- no one was safe. Scientifically speaking, the fact that Crowley and Castiel were affected was impossible. Both of their host bodies were dead bags of flesh, as far as either of them were concerned, and they were powerful enough to fend off simple infection. And yet, here they were, just as sick as their mortal companions.

Something else must be at play. Something microscopes couldn't see.

" -- maybe this is a curse, a ritual of sorts," Crowley said absently to himself, voice faint, as he stared at his dog, which had reappeared with bottles of water carefully clenched in her teeth. "Targeting the people who deserve it."

Castiel knew about humans and how they worked, and he knew the basics of their health. He was aware that such a rise in temperature was a bad sign, but not what to do about it, and he was a lot more focused on Crowley's speculation.

"That's why you believe we're both so unwell whereas others aren't?" Castiel's only voice is faint and he was determinedly holding down another coughing fit in order to speak. It made sense, in a way; he could follow Crowley's logic on the effects on them, and how they shouldn't be sick from a normal illness. If it was a curse... Well. They both deserved it, Castiel especially.

He didn't answer, at first, lost in thought as he analyzed his theory that made absolutely no sense. It was frustrating, being ill -- his normally lightning fast thought process felt slow, sluggish, inefficient. He was so tired that he didn't even really notice that he was using Castiel's legs as something to lean against in order to prevent himself from toppling over. And sure, he could move back to his chair, but it was so far away, and Crowley certainly wasn't going to faint on the floor like some weakling. Not when half of his enemies in the Port were about.

Not that they could get into the house, but whatever. Crowley couldn't afford to be ill and sick, not when he needed to constantly think and plan and be eighteen steps ahead as everyone else. And he was -- that was why he was alive, wasn't it? And why Castiel was dead? Except he wasn't dead, not really -- Meg had told him the future. And while Crowley knew full well what a lying sack of shit Meg was, he also knew a liar. And Meg wasn't lying to him.

The ability to remove emotion from decision was something Crowley was notoriously good at. He held a lot of anger, passion, cunning at bay in order to constantly manipulate the strings around him, pulling and tugging in order to get the puppets to dance in his favor. Castiel, really, was no different -- except Crowley had made a crucial mistake. He had trusted the angel with something more than the basic facts. He had trusted Castiel with his entire goal, his plan -- he had included someone else in his master scheme.

Even now, with those wounds still open, but healing, Crowley couldn't trust him completely. Or anyone, really. Wasn't he now planning with Ruby in order to secure their position in the Port, to finally keep the Winchesters out of the way, to remove their weapons from them? Wasn't he, at home, planning by himself to rid the planet of the Leviathan, not really caring what was in his way, so long as he managed it? Didn't he, just like Lucifer, murder thousands of demons in order to prevent another revolution, to stay the peace with more bloodshed? It was a giant mess of hypocrisy and suddenly, Crowley's chest hurt with the effort of breathing.

Fitting, for the demon that pulled the world along on a string, to be suffocated underneath the weight of it.

And here, his former (current?) partner in crime, was no better. Equally guilty of ruining their world. Equally stained with red with the monsters they had tortured in order to pry open the doors of Purgatory.

Finally, Crowley said tiredly:

"I don't know, kitten. If I did, we wouldn't be ill."

Castiel was silent, while Crowley thought, watching the demon with his eyes half closed and hazy from fever. He knew Crowley well enough to be able to tell that he was conflicted about something, bothered, but Castiel didn't ask; he rarely did, because they gave each other space. It was how things worked, and it worked well, for the most part.

Until of course they hid things they shouldn't.

But Castiel was far too sick to even follow thoughts to completion, let alone try to guess what was bothering Crowley if it was even anything beyond the illness itself. But he did manage to gather enough willpower to sit up, head spinning, but though his vision fogged he didn't lose consciousness again this time.

"You should rest." He finally said, after a moment. He wasn't sure why Crowley hadn't just gone back into his room after realizing there were no popsicles.

"And do what?" Crowley retorted, though with only a fraction of the venom he would normally work into such a statement. "Lay in bed alone and wait for Death to claim me? Forget it."

There was a sudden low whining, from Growley, and the demon leaned forward slightly, to pet his dog, subdued instantly by her show of concern. The stupid animal had never once turned her back on him, even in the midst of rebellion -- through thick and thin. Perhaps that was why Crowley liked dogs so much -- they were loyal, to the very end. They loved unconditionally, no matter what you had done or what scars you bore from the previous battle. Even the most whipped hellhounds were perfectly obedient to the demons that had trained them.

"I'm not going to die, calm down," Crowley murmured.

Crowley's words to his dog cut off the question Castiel was going to ask; if the demon really thought he was going to die. Castiel's heart jolted in his chest at the thought, because he remembered clearly when Crowley did die, and to think of it happening again was so strangely unbearable.

"Perhaps rest will prevent death, not simply pass time." He suggested, voice faint, resting his head against the back of the couch but not laying back down.

"Then what are you doing speaking?"

With exhaustion and pain came patience -- weirdly, for Crowley, as it was usually the opposite with a great majority of people. Still, Crowley could see little else he could do in this situation save for endure it. He had one theory -- and it was a terribly stupid theory -- and not much else. The only thing he could do was annoy Castiel, pet his dog, and suffer in relative silence.

Soon to be complete silence, given up horrifically his throat burned and clenched together whenever he spoke, but the demon wasn't about to let a few swollen lymph nodes get in the way of being heard, even if it did come out as a whispered hiss.

"Stop annoying me and pretend to sleep."

"I'm resting." Castiel responded quietly; his own throat ached terribly as well, but he was too stubborn not to talk just like the demon was. "You are the one annoying me." If they wanted to get technical. This was Castiel's 'room' and Crowley had his own, but he'd chosen to be in Castiel's.

For whatever reason.

"I am not."

It was punctuated by a slight digging in of his elbow into Castiel's leg, irritated by the completely false allegations.

"Go to sleep before I knock you out."

Not that Castiel could sleep. Or that Crowley could sleep, either. But the threat made him feel oddly better as he tried to work up the will to teleport to his room. It would only take one tiny moment of concentration ... !

No. Nothing.

Damn it.

Castiel gave him a look, lifting his head again, shifting his legs under the pretense of moving away from Crowley's elbow but also to give the demon more room. He could sense that failed teleportation.

"There was some movie you wanted me to see." He remarked quietly, after a moment, nodding his head just slightly at the television. Something about mermaids, and Castiel had protested that he had no desire or patience to watch a movie.

But neither of them were going anywhere, so why not?

The demon glanced over at the suggestion before he sighed to himself. Reduced to sitting on a couch with an angel watching Disney movies because neither of them were well enough to move. How the mighty had fallen.

The demon flicked his fingers at the television, which turned on at the slight use of his power. A few more moments of concentration and the On Demand menu was shown.

"Pick one and we'll watch it."

Castiel was silent for several seconds, some sort of thought process going on in his feverish brain, before commenting completely out of the blue. "I believe I am friends with a mermaid."

It made perfect sense to him, thinking about mermaid movies, to get onto this topic. But he didn't bother to explain how he'd gotten from point a to point b.

Luckily for Castiel, Crowley knew him well enough to know where he had reached that astonishing conclusion, and he clicked through the movie options toward The Little Mermaid.

"Are you cheating on me with a mermaid?" Crowley asked lazily.

Castiel watched him choose the movie with some satisfaction, though at the question he frowned for a moment in thought.

"I don't know."

Was he? In his current state, this was something to ponder, instead of to roll his eyes at and ignore.

"Our relationship is extraordinarily open-ended, I wouldn't be too concerned."

As Crowley tossed the remote lightly on the chair next to the couch, sighing tiredly to himself. Ordinarily, he would mercilessly torment Castiel for his lapse in judgment, but he didn't even have the energy to do that. He didn't even know if he could stay awake long enough to watch a stupid movie.

Somehow, missing out on the opportunity to torment Castiel was more worrying.

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but it was not your fault but mine

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