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
"I don't know."
Was he? In his current state, this was something to ponder, instead of to roll his eyes at and ignore.
no subject
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.