Crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
integrity) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sirenspull_logs2012-05-17 02:46 am
integrity) wrote in sirenspull_logs2012-05-17 02:46 am
but it was not your fault but mine
Who: Crowley [integrity] and Castiel [ofthursday]
When: May 17th, 4:00 AM.
Where: Crowleyand 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.
integrity] and Castiel [ofthursday]When: May 17th, 4:00 AM.
Where: Crowley
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.
no subject
"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.
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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
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.
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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.
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"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.
no subject
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."
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For whatever reason.
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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.
no subject
"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?
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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."
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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.
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"Are you cheating on me with a mermaid?" Crowley asked lazily.
no subject
"I don't know."
Was he? In his current state, this was something to ponder, instead of to roll his eyes at and ignore.
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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.