Another day, another one-shot. This one has the honor of being the slashiest thing I've ever written. So, yeah, suppose that's an accomplishment.
Also, no offense to people who dig Wincest, or fans of any pairing. This fic is meant as humor, not criticism. Everybody gets to laugh at everyone else's expense. Sam fans, Dean fans, Castiel fans, Crowley fans, Bobby fans, Ghostfacers fans, scarecrow harvest god fans, this fic is an equal-opportunity offender. Just as it should be.
For a time-line, post Caged Heat in Season 6.
Enough of my yammering! Onto the story!
No matter how many alpha monsters he had to torture and dissect, no matter how much fine imported liquor he drank, and no matter how many lascivious insults he threw at his fine feathered friend, Crowley still found himself bored with house arrest. Yes, he was well aware of how important it was everyone think him dead, permanently exorcised at Castiel's hand, but come on! He needed something new, something exciting, something…naughty.
And preferably something that would make the Winchesters squirm like they had fire ants in their denim.
Crowley flopped down in his armchair and with the snap of his fingers had a fire blazing in the fireplace. He snapped his fingers again and the fire disappeared, leaving not so much as a warm ember. Another snap, and another roaring fire. Another snap, and nothing remained but a few smears of soot. Fire. Cold hearth. Fire. Empty fireplace. Fire.
Maybe he could… No, that would leave demonic witnesses, and demons gossiped worse than old women. What if he… Castiel would probably burn him for real. But suppose… The sex would be magnificent, but the smiting, not so much.
That was when it clicked. Crowley needed a computer, and he needed one fast. He couldn't afford to let this idea get away from him.
It didn't take the King of Hell long to fetch the laptop he'd used for record-keeping and cataloging his nicely-growing collection of shape-shifters, vampires, and other nasty beasties. He ignored the spreadsheets and opened an internet browser.
The short-lived series of novels by one Chuck Shurley, prophet of the Lord and apparent king of homoerotic undertones, were not exactly Crowley's brand of literature. Still, he'd read bits and pieces of them (he particularly enjoyed parts where some monster or demon kicked the crap out of the Winchesters) and knew a little about the series' die-hard following, tiny and pitiful as it was. And one of the things he remembered about the loyal following was that its self-appointed leader, Becky, was a complete madwoman. A complete madwoman who liked her Winchesters with a side of each other.
Crowley found Becky's blog and fan sites and within five minutes was red-faced with laughter. Oh, Becky was a gem. A cracked, filthy gem with a questionable grasp of dialogue and grammar, but a gem never the less.
"'Then I don't want to be right'," Crowley read aloud and dissolved into another fit of giggles. It was so beautiful Crowley was compelled to wipe away an imaginary tear. This was going to be perfect, though the next time he looked at Sam and Dean—and he was too much a realist to think there would never be a next time—he'd never be able to manage a straight face.
Crowley browsed through the rest of Becky's fanfictions, and then moved onto the works of some of her fellow fans. A majority of the stories, asides from being written at a fifth-grade level, featured Sam and Dean wildly tearing off each other's clothes and shagging in a wide variety of places, though the most popular spots involved the Impala, either in the car's backseat, on its hood, or once, somehow, in its trunk. Those stories were all well and good, but every now and then, Crowley found one that left him speechless.
"Bobby and John. Bobby and John." Crowley said it a third time and that didn't make it any less surreal. How did these people think up this stuff? Not that Crowley wasn't thankful that they did—it reminded him that Bobby, too, was on his naughty list, and might like something to read beside Junkyard Monthly or whatever they subscribed to in the sticks of South Dakota.
As unlikely as Bobby and John repurposing Bobby's panic room into a "pleasure palace" was, even that paled in comparison to what Crowley found next: a seven-way orgy involving the Seven Deadly Sins.
And here Crowley thought his torture was creative. Forcing everyone in hell to queue for eternity was nothing compared to reading what happened when Lust, Gluttony, and Pride played voyeur to Wrath, Sloth, Greed, and Envy.
Still marveling at the endless human capacity for creativity, and the endless human capacity for cruelty, Crowley minimized the browser. He had learned from the masters of smut, and now it was his turn to join them.
All he needed was a good penname. A penname nobody, not Sherlock Holmes, not Philip Marlowe, not Miss Marple, could ever track back to him.
So KingofHell, SamisaMoose, and IHeartCraig were all out. Crowley scratched his chin thoughtfully and paged through the already-chosen noms de plume. Many of the authors laid their claim on either Dean or Sam, and names like "Sam's Girl" or "Dean Is a Hottie" abounded. Fitting in with the crowd wouldn't be such a bad idea, though Crowley couldn't bear to pick between the Winchesters. He settled on the inclusive name "Sam&Dean4Ever". Using numbers in place of words was almost a painful mutilation of his native tongue, but it was an excellent device for covering his tracks. Nobody would expect immaculately-dressed, sharp-as-Alastair's-knives Crowley to use text-speak.
His name chosen, Crowley settled down to think of a plot. By a plot, he meant the anatomically-iffy carnal joining of whoever the hell struck his fancy. For a practice round, it couldn't hurt to do what everyone else was doing, and make Sam and Dean more than brothers.
There were some things even the King of Hell couldn't do, and write without laughing a scene in which Dean's clothes and Sam's inhibitions were magically removed by a Trickster was apparently one of those things. It was a shame, nay, a tragedy that Gabriel was dead and couldn't appreciate his role in Crowley's blossoming as a writer. The archangel would have no doubt loved to hear that he was the muse of mindless Winchester on Winchester action.
Perfunctory Wincest accomplished, Crowley cracked his knuckles and moved onto something more exotic. He decided to play with the Winchesters one at a time now, and Sam, the clopping dinosaur that he was, was first up on the chopping block.
Chuck, divine gift or not, hadn't been able to keep a publisher interested in a series in which one of the main heartthrobs was dragged to Hell by a rabid, invisible dog. Unless Crowley wanted to reveal his hand, which he certainly didn't, he had to limit his pairings to what the fans knew. No Horsemen, no Lucifer, not even any Castiel. That was a crying shame. Crowley could imagine what the ravenous little buggers would have done with the angel. The damn publisher had folded one book too soon.
Sam was safe from a romp with War, but there was nothing to stop Crowley from sticking his favorite moose in a room with Azazel. That ought to bring back the memories.
Sex and violence were two of the driving factors of all life, and they certainly abounded in Crowley's second masterpiece. It was astounding how sensual a story where one character alternatively wept for his dead mommy and whacked the other character on the head with an iron bar could be. If the reader was a complete sadist, that was. Otherwise the story was a gruesome revenge fantasy Quentin Tarantino might have liked to film.
Crowley put the finishing touches on the epilogue—Sam, surprise, mourned his dead mother some more—and sunk his claws into the less scruffy of the Winchesters. For Dean, maybe another run-in with his number one fans: the Ghostfacers.
Ghost-possessed Ghostfacers. Gay ghost-possessed Ghostfacers. Maybe a spare gay ghost could even possess the Impala.
After a great deal of salt, swearing, and road rash, Dean Winchester emerged permanently scarred, both mentally and physically. The physical scar was the result of a hot tailpipe. The mental scars were the result of having amateur ghost hunters and a 45-year-old car turn Deliverance on him.
It was his magnum opus. Nothing could ever surpass the image of Dean crawling desperately into a drain pipe to escape from a horny Impala.
Except maybe Sam making friends with benefits with an ancient harvest god.
Or both Winchesters falling prey to a vampire. A vampire that loved sucking things other than blood, despite the risks his fangs posed. Crowley thought of the alpha vampire he had in his collection of Purgatory-spawn, and then imagined how quickly the super-vamp could rend Sam's plaid. He grinned and added a detailed scene in which every last article of clothing the Winchesters possessed was shredded by the vampire. Some desperate little fangirl out there would melt when she read about her sex idols' underwear being cleaved in two.
Crowley finished the vampire story with a heavy dose of angst, something else the fangirls and fanboys loved almost as much as sex and "whump". The vampire, being a parasitic blood-drinking killer, had to be put down for the greater good, no matter how much the Winchesters liked to romp with him. Crowley, no fan of his alpha's taciturnity, took great pleasure in writing a nasty beheading scene.
Like God surveying creation, Crowley looked down upon his work and considered it good. Damn good, actually. Compared to his writing, his peers' stories were drooling idiots that had to be tied to the radiator so they wouldn't crawl under the sink and drink the cleaning chemicals.
Not that Crowley, former punk-ass crossroads demon turned King of Hell through nothing but his own wit, cunning, and brutality, expected anything less. He didn't need his meat-suit literary agent to tell him he had a way with adjectives. He had more than enough experience drafting contracts for souls to know how to play with words to his ultimate advantage.
Crowley gave his stories another once-over to ensure he hadn't accidentally left any telltale signatures: Brit-speak, incriminating phrases or terms of sarcastic affection, any sex scene that sounded too much like it was based on debauched experience. He dialed up the purple-prose in the vampire fic—giving the vampire "scarlet orbs" instead of "blood-tinged irises"—and decided to give Dean a thong. Why? Because he was a bloody demon and putting strapping young hunters in lacy pink underwear was part of the job description.
The thong, Crowley was sure, would eliminate any and all suspicion that the stories had been published by anything except a normal (though possibly sex-starved) human. Thongs were banal, common, barely worth calling fetishes. The girl at Victoria's Secret and the four-hundred-pound mountain gorilla at Wal-Mart both wore thongs. It would take so much more than a piece of string to arouse someone of Crowley's level.
Like wings. Wings might do the trick.
And a backwards tie. Any perverted old bastard could drool over a nineteen-year-old blonde wearing a tie with her schoolgirl outfit, but it took a connoisseur to admire the finer points of a poorly-knotted tie that looked like it had been tied in the dark and by a drunk with palsied fingers.
Crowley looked down and noticed his hands had gotten ahead of him. They'd been spilling his thoughts out on the word-processor without his permission, and they'd been doing a very good job of it. It was almost a crime to delete what they'd written while he'd been daydreaming—or evening-dreaming, as the sun had settled considerably since Crowley had first propped open the laptop—but Castiel wasn't canon.
So what? Crowley asked himself. He wasn't technically canon, either. Another black mark on the publisher's face, as far as the demon was concerned. He had such potential with the fans.
Bugger the publisher and bugger Chuck's poor choices and bugger canon. Crowley had spent hours writing like he was never getting into anything better than a community college, and he was going to have his finely-scripted erotica if it killed him.
Just as soon as he published that aforementioned dreck and ensured it would be impossible for Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, or Bobby Singer to have sex again for at least six months.
Crowley minimized the latest and by far the greatest of his writing. He then brought back the internet, returned to Becky's fan-site, and submitted all his passion- and angst-riddled fanfictions for her loyal viewers' pleasure. It was their reward for having helped Crowley get started, though they were not the audience he needed to reach.
Finding a way to reach that audience would have been difficult for most people, but most people weren't the King of Hell and most people hadn't been temporary owners of Bobby's soul and most people hadn't employed Sam and Dean as professional monster hunters. For the one person who did fulfill all those qualifications, it was no problem to discover the three email addresses he needed.
Bobby was first, and Crowley wondered if Bobby's ancient computer could even handle so many email attachments without dying. Whatever operating system Bobby was using, he was probably the last holdout in the whole country, if not the world. Not like there was anything to be done about it. Crowley wasn't going to send Bobby a shiny new laptop for his birthday, not after that stunt with the burning bones. He'd just have to ask Cas to check in on Bobby, surreptitiously of course, and if Bobby was trying to burn his eyes out with bleach and salt, Crowley would know his mail had been delivered.
Sam and Dean were not still living in the golden age of Windows 3.0 and had cell-phones Crowley knew could handle a word document or two. Next time the boys checked their messages, they were going to die.
Hopefully literally. That would get their fingers out of Crowley's pie once and for all.
Grinning at the thought of no more Winchesters, or of permanently limp Winchester naughty bits, Crowley returned to his present to himself.
He had barely even gotten to tousle Castiel's hair when a flapping of wings filled the room. Crowley looked behind him and found an angel standing where moments ago there had been nobody.
"My favorite flamingo," Crowley greeted. "How's the war going? Gotten Moses' staff jammed up your backside yet?"
"The Staff of Moses was broken," Castiel replied. "Though I have recovered the pieces."
"From your backside?"
"No, from Balthazar."
"That, love, it what they call sarcasm. I know about Heaven's little sticks and stones."
Castiel fixed Crowley with an indeterminate stare. Almost all of Castiel's stared tended to be that way.
"What are you doing here?" Castiel asked.
"Using Google Earth to find the exact location of Purgatory. I heard from a little shape-shifter that it's somewhere around Batman, Turkey," Crowley replied mildly, as he returned to his typing.
"I believe the shape-shifter lied," Castiel said.
"What are you writing?"
"Is that more sarcasm?"
"No. That's God's honest truth."
Castiel asked nothing more. He knew about pornography: you didn't watch it with others, and you didn't talk about it, no matter how confusing you found the relationship of the babysitter and the pizza man.
There was silence between the angel and the demon as Castiel shifted from foot to foot and Crowley continued writing. It was Castiel who broke first.
"I should leave," the angel said, turning.
"Before you go, I've got a question to ask. A personal question," Crowley said.
Castiel swallowed grimly. He did not like personal questions and he did not like the idea of Crowley learning anything about him.
"I can always refuse to answer," Castiel finally replied.
"Of course. So, here it is. Suppose we had sex and I made you come so hard you saw the birth of the cosmos, the death of stars, and, just for a moment, the face of God. Would I then get to see your wings?"
All the color drained from Castiel's face. Then, with the unstoppable determination of hurricane-driven storm surge, it returned with reinforcements. By the time the blood was done coloring the angel's face, he looked like he was burning with a fever hot enough to cook his brain.
"No," Castiel choked out. He disappeared immediately afterward.
Crowley shrugged. He still had his artistic license, and it wasn't called fiction for nothing.
Thanks for reading. And in case anyone isn't up to snuff on their fictional detectives, Philip Marlowe is Raymond Chandler's creation, and Miss Marple belongs to Agatha Christie.