You were in a motel somewhere in the middle of Washington trying to sew up the cut on the back of your head when Crowley decided to make an appearance. He must have been startled at the sight of your floating mirror and suture equipment because you saw his eyes widen before narrowing as he focused on what was happening.
“Since when do you need to be stitched back together?” He asked, walking into the bathroom and nodding toward the cut on the back of your head. “Is this something I should be concerned about?”
You were tempted to swear at him, tell him to leave before you [threat], but at that point you were so exhausted that you weren’t even up for arguing. Crowley must have noticed the energy that was still radiating from you, as sometimes happened after you used a large quantity of energy in a short period of time, because he scoffed, gesturing to your general figure.
“You look like a light bulb, Y/N.”
The bathroom was small, a typical motel bathroom, and the mirror was just to the right of the door that lead to the main living area; Crowley had been standing in the bathroom doorway but had since grown much closer to you, his nose sniffing as he got closer.
“And you smell like the Winchesters.”
Irritated, disappointed that he didn’t catch the drift you were trying to give off by ignoring him, you rolled your eyes and stopped stitching yourself up just long enough to turn your head, look at him, and say, “And you sound like little red fucking riding hood, Crowley.”
Crowley actually gasped when you said that, the uncharacteristic snarkiness and vulgar answer enough to make him take a step back from surprise. He only looked at you, his eyes exploring every part of your head while you went back to stitching up your skull before he shrugged and turned, taking a seat on the bed that was five or so feet from the bathroom door.
“Ignoring that,” he said, “I thought you’d like to know that the Winchesters, who you seem to be so entirely fond of,” the jealousy in his voice was adorable and you almost smirked at his clearly nostalgic way of thinking, but you managed to hold the smirk back, “Have requested that I retrieve the First Blade for them.”
You froze, watching in the mirror as the needle, which had been in the middle of one of the final stitches, froze in your flesh. Eyes narrowed, jaw slightly slack, you turned to look at Crowley in a silent attempt to ask him whether he was being serious, to which he only shrugged and shook his head.
“Of course I’m not going to give it to them until they’ve—“
“Why do they need it?”
The eagerness in your question made Crowley’s eyebrows rise and you knew he was seconds from asking about the impatience in your voice, but he elected, at the last moment, to ignore it. Simply, his voice rather bland, he said, “It would appear that they’ve chosen to take on the task of asking Metatron how to be rid of the Mark of Cain.”
“The scribe?”
“That’s what I was told.” Crowley held his hands up by his head as he tilted his head to the side, a type of ‘don’t blame me’ motion. “Apparently they were told that the first thing they need in order to do some spell is the Blade, which they trusted into my care.”
The hand mirror that had been floating in the air behind you slowly lowered and set itself on the closed toilet seat lid before you turned to face Crowley, ignoring the fact that there was still a needle with thread sticking from the back of your head. A look of surprise passed Crowley’s features the longer you looked at him, likely because of a happy mixture of your fat, cut lip, and the slash on your right cheek that was now bruising and swelling, but you ignored him.
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Hell's Greatest Weapon
FanfictionAfter centuries of incessant war, Reader finally managed to settle down into a normal human life; she attended medical school, bought a house, made friends that didn't make a habit of killing everything that moved. She was out of the life, out of H...
