"Come on, little witch. You're only prolonging the inevitable. We're going to have you one way... or the other..."
***
There are some rules you don't break
when it comes to the supernatural.
1. Don't be an idiot.
2. Don't make deals with Demons...
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The Trickster
Malachi came back to us last night with a shit eating grin. Asshole. Whatever happened with the witch made him nearly intolerable. He was basically swinging his dick around and flaunting how 'amazing' he was with playing mind fuckery.
If he wanted to see some mind fuckery then the bitchass could watch and learn because I wasn't going to let that shit slide.
"Hey, shit stain," I snapped at Des. "It's your cue."
Destiel was always too busy inspecting his luscious golden locks. Day in and day out, the pretty boy couldn't take his eyes off himself.
"Self-absorbed prick," I muttered, setting the butt of my pool stick on the smooth concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse we had taken over.
"My bad," he huffed, stepping away from the mirror. "I didn't think you were in such a hurry to get your ass beat."
I snorted. "Shoot the damn ball, dickwad."
He took a sip of his whiskey, sighing heavily. "With pleasure, asswipe," he smirked, bowing mockingly.
He lined up his shot with expert precision. It's no surprise he was good at pool. The dude knew his angles, mostly because he had to in order to best stalk his prey. For being as big as he was, Destiel was good at keeping a low profile.
Malachi strode into the room, perfectly in order. As always. His suit was always pristine, with a perfectly folded pocket square in the suit jacket. His longer jet black hair was slicked back in the douchiest way possible.
"Where's Sam," he asked blandly.
"Don't know," I huffed, watching Des sink another shot. "Don't care. But if I had to guess, probably stabbing something."
Mal rolled his eyes. "Great. Then you get to go run an errand for me."
I shut my eyes, groaning in annoyance.
"I'm not an errand boy. Send Des. He needs something better to do than check himself out. Isn't that right, Des?"
"Go fuck yourself," Destiel laughed, hitting another ball in the middle pocket.
"What if I told you there was something in it for you," he asked.
I narrowed my eyes. "Like what?"
"Like some time with your muse," he answered simply.
I tilted my head. "What's the move?"
"I need you to look into a witch named Calliope Lovett," he said, pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He pulled his lighter and lit the end of the cigarette lazily.
"Why," I asked plainly.
He took a long drag. "Because," he said, exhaling. "You need to practice following orders."
