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."
no subject
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."