Warnings: Hints of torture, sexual situations, light torture depicted… more might be added later depending on how dark I want to take this. Rating may rise in later chapters.
Full Summary: AU Past Parts of SPN S8. Daphne Allen is a saint… and saints are rare creatures. Saints have many powers, useful to both angels… and to demons. Saints can hear the angels speak, their blood can be used for many things, and they have a sight for things that normal humans do not. And, more importantly, saints have the power to redeem a soul. In order to ensure her family's safety, Daphne makes a deal with Crowley—one year of usage of her saintly powers with no arguments, and no interferences.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any related characters. They belong to Kripke. No money made here.
Author's Notes: Thanks for the great reviews! More! LOL. Here's the next chapter! Also, Slinky_And_The_BloodyWands has done some art for this. You'll be able to see it as I post this at Livejournal as well at (remove spaces) patriciatepes. Livejournal. Com. Sorry for the super-long wait on this. I've gotten woefully behind on everything. Work and life in general. My problem is that, I think, I have set so many goals for myself. And while having a lot of goals is not, in itself, a bad thing, it is if you allow yourself to become overwhelmed with them. I keep trying to tell myself to take it one at a time… but alas, I'm having difficulty in this. Any hints? They would be much appreciated.
Crowley sat in his study, a glass of Craig in his hand as he stared off into the dimness of the room. If he was the sort of demon to pat himself on the back, then he would have. Today had been rather productive for him. His saint had long locked herself away in her room—which was fine for now, as he had no further uses for her today. Just the fact that he had a saint and that the Winchesters and Castiel could do nothing about it was like a whipped topping. Best. Deal. Ever.
But Crowley was a realist if anything. An opportunist, yes, but also a realist. As good as this investment seemed, it was still rather blind. Sure, he had the contract to hold over sweet little Daphne's head—the threat of her family's well-being—but… it didn't feel like enough. The more leverage the better, he always said. Especially since humans were notoriously slippery buggers… the Winchesters particularly.
The demon downed his Craig in one swallow, setting the glass on his desk as he began to drum his fingers on its surface. He needed more. More to ensure that neither Daphne nor her family's little keepers were going to make a move on him. If his dealings with those denim-wrapped nightmares had taught him anything, it was that there was always a way to weasel out of a demon deal.
Information was where he would start. After all, he knew very little about Daphne Allen—only what Meg had screamed at him in the Pit. He knew that she was saint because she had been married to Castiel… and had done all the things that marriage usually entails. And he knew that she was hiding something from him… the deal had been too easy. There was something there, just out of his grasp, that Daphne didn't want him to know about. First thing in the morning, the remaining Allen household in North Carolina was going to get a little surveillance. But right now, he had a bigger issue.
He had meant what he had been saying to Daphne. She was a little more than useless to him right now, due to her utter inexperience with her own power. She reminded him of a freshly topside demon… no freakin' idea of what she was capable of. But Crowley needed her powerful. It took one hell of a wallop—no pun intended—to open up the gates of Hell. She needed to learn… learn how to be a saint.
And at that, Crowley stood and snapped his fingers. In his hands appeared a tablet, another Word of God, and he knew it to be the one labeled "saints." He smiled as he made his way out of the study, the lump of stone held close to his body. If he wanted to refresh his memory about saints—and find a nice starting point for Daphne's training—then he knew exactly where he had to go. His own, handy-dandy prophet of the Lord.
He wound down a few hallways before he finally reached an ill-used side of the manor. Three doors down on the right side of the least-decorated corridor of his lavish home, he found the door there and gave the knob a hard twist. He shoved the door open—as it was reinforced with steel—and entered. He paused in the threshold, the light of a single florescent bulb shining down on the room's lone occupant.
"Kevin," Crowley said in his loudest voice. "Wake-y, wake-y."
Kevin Tran, Prophet of the Lord, managed to pull his head up from his chest. His face was bloodied and bruised, and cuts covered most of it. He sat in a thick, medieval style chair with his wrist and ankles bound to his very seat, as well as a thick leather strap going across his torso. Crowley shut the door behind him, pulling up the other, less impressive chair in the room. He whirled it about, straddling it, as he laid the tablet on a rolling medical tray and moved it in front of the prophet.
Kevin's eyes trailed lazily down toward the tablet. Crowley grinned at him, but he could feel his patience thinning. The boy was moving far too slow for his liking. Of course, that was probably his fault. Shouldn't play so rough with him all the time. But sometimes… sometimes it was all just so aggravating. Finally, however, Kevin rubbed his dry, cracked lips together, and raised his gaze to level with Crowley's.
"This is the Saints tablet," he said shortly.
Crowley rolled his eyes, and he would have been lying if he wasn't just a wee bit tempted to find something sharp to poke Kevin with. But the King of Hell kept his composure, thinking back fondly on his time together with Kevin thus far. He leaned forward in his backwards chair and chuckled, gesturing to the tablet.
"I'm well aware of that, Kevin. I need you to read some things in it to me," he said. "Some of those sexier parts you found some time ago."
Kevin's eyes narrowed, which looked painful due to the slight swelling and bruising to them. But the look of confusion on the prophet's face was still well received.
"But… I've already read this one to you, Crowley," Kevin replied, his voice going hoarse there for a moment.
Crowley rose from his chair for a moment, his grin becoming more strained with each passing moment. He leaned forward, placing a hand on either one of Kevin's bound wrists.
"I know that, Kevin," the demon growled. "Had I new reading material for you, then yes, you would be reading it. But you've made sure that both the Demon and the Angel tablets were beyond repair, didn't you? Nearly cost you and your odd little hunter friend your lives, didn't it? Now, be a good little boy, and read me my tablet!"
With that Crowley settled back down into his chair, and Kevin sighed. However, he turned his attention back to the lump of stone on the medical tray before him.
"What do you want me to read from it?" he asked, defeated.
"I need more details on a couple of things you mentioned during your first reading. Some deeper explaining," Crowley said.
Kevin turned his attention back to the King of Hell, a wry smile on his face.
"Most of it was rather self-explanatory, I thought," the boy quipped.
"Oh, Kevin," Crowley smiled. "Don't think I won't lop off another finger… and this time, they'll be no angel to heal you."
That seemed to shut the little brat up. Crowley nodded in satisfaction, standing and approaching a nearby—rather dirty-looking—sink. He grabbed the single, clear glass that stood beside the faucet, and turned on the cold water. He filled the glass halfway before shutting the water off and returning to his seat. Kevin's eyes gazed at the glass greedily, and Crowley gestured to it.
"Play nice, young prince, and I'll make sure you drink this before I leave. Now, as I was saying, I need you to explain some things in that tablet to me a bit better… particularly, the powers a saint possesses."
"Why?" Kevin asked. "Why now?"
Crowley's eyes were slits, he was sure, which caused Kevin to quickly backtrack.
"No insult… I'm just confused. Why do you want this information now?"
"If you must know, it's because I am now in the possession of a saint."
Kevin shook his head. "That's not possible. According to this tablet, there are very specific conditions under which a saint is made. I wouldn't think there would be any living saints anywhere now."
"Yes, yes, I know. A saint can only be made when an angel feels love and expresses that love to a human, blah, blah, blah," Crowley said, barely paraphrasing what he remembered from the tablet's first reading. "I just so happen to have the saint that was married to a mutual friend of ours. Surely you remember him? Castiel?"
Kevin frowned. The boy knew what that meant, and either Moose or Squirrel had informed the boy of Castiel's time as…well, as not Castiel. He couldn't deny that Crowley was speaking the truth, and the demon could almost see the rock of worry forming in the pit of the prophet's stomach.
"What is it that you need?" Kevin asked, his voice hollow.
"That's my boy. My dear Daphne hasn't exactly been banking in on her saintly powers… frankly, as it stands, she has no more power than a fly stuck on some tape. But, should she exercise that power…"
Kevin's eyes had already drifted back down to the tablet, moving side-to-side in his head as he read the symbols only he could understand. He breathed heavily through his mouth—his nose probably still clotted with dried blood—as he seemed to come to a stop on a particular section.
"Well… there's her blood, and all the stuff that that can do," Kevin said.
But Crowley waved it off. "That's more… automatic. And besides, it too is rather unimpressive without more juice in her battery. I need something small… baby steps."
Kevin's eyes lowered—not before lingering on the glass of promised water, Crowley noticed—back to the tablet. He was silent for several moments, and Crowley sighed, his fingers drumming on the back of the chair. Finally, however, Kevin glanced back up.
"Well…" he drawled.
"Yes?" Crowley asked through gritted teeth.
"There's one thing in here that I think would be the simplest to start with… I mean, you do own a hellhound, don't you?" Kevin asked.
Crowley grinned, standing and grabbing the glass of water. He stepped closer to Kevin, holding the rim of the glass to the boy's parched lips as he allowed him to take a few drinks. He pulled it away before the glass could be emptied. Kevin tried to reach for it, to get the rest, but Crowley wagged a finger at him.
"Good boy, but our night's not done with yet. Details, Kevin. I'm a details man. Saints can see hellhounds, can't they?" Crowley said, retaking his seat.
Kevin nodded. "And reapers, and anything else that a general human couldn't see. Even angels and demons give off a little something to them."
"But how do they see them? Does the tablet explain?"
Kevin shrugged as best he could, being so restrained. "Not really. It says it just takes a special concentration."
Crowley brow arched. He tapped his index finger on the back of his chair before standing once more and grabbing the glass. He allowed Kevin to finish it off before returning it to the sink.
"I think I can work with that… but I'll be back a little later, Kevin. Daphne's got a long way to go before she's strong enough to throw open Hell, which means you and I get to spend a bit more quality time together than what we have been lately."
Crowley pulled the tray out from underneath Kevin's nose, shoving it and the chair off into the shadows just after snatching back up the tablet. He tucked it under his arm as he chuckled at the rather crestfallen expression on his prophet's face.
"Until later, darling. Kisses," the demon said, exiting the room.
Just to rub a little salt in the wound, he made sure to slam the reinforced door behind him a little harder than necessary. He thought he could hear Kevin make some sort of noise of despair after he had done so, and it brought a sunny smile to his face.
"Good day," he chuckled, heading back to the study.