Chapter Text
Stuck fast. Pinned like a moth. It's an affront to his power, and the fact that it's at the hands of his mother, only serves to amplify the insult. He's the King Of Hell! He shouldn't be vulnerable to witchcraft. He knows he is NOT vulnerable to hers. The failed attempt on his life proved that. Yet, here he is. Anchored in place. Bollocks.
Castiel's trapped too. That's some consolation. Embarrassing if it had been otherwise. Crowley immobilised while the pigeon was free to move about. But it doesn't help him to resolve the matter at hand.
Rowena gathers up the Book of the Damned, and the codex and waves a hand at the angel muttering a spell. Her cold eyes sweep over Crowley reflecting nothing but contempt. He should be used to that by now, but something small and vulnerable, hidden deep inside still cringes and aches at the utter lack of love coming from her. She never loved me. He wishes that thought didn't hurt as much as it does. And then she is gone and he's still transfixed and the situation becomes immeasurably worse.
"Castiel, don't!" The angel is moving. Shuffling towards him, angel blade in hand. His eyes are dead, blood streaming from them like tears and his intent is clear. "Castiel!"
It's another cruel jest on his mother's part; to set the angel on him at the last. The one creature that has ever shown any kind of compassion to him. The one being in all the world who might possibly have loved him. So, it comes to this. The stupid pigeon is going to kill him and there's not a damned thing Crowley can do about it.
Well, he's certainly not going to cower. He can have a little dignity at least. He can die with his eyes wide open and his head held high. The angel is close now, within striking range and Crowley's eyes are fixed on the blade. At least it will be quick. He wonders if it will hurt.
It's pure instinct that has him lift a hand as if to parry the blow. And then his fingers close around Castiel's wrist and he fights to hold the blade away from his throat. Castiel roars, enraged and they teeter together precariously on the brink. If Castiel brings him down, Crowley knows, he is done for. He grits his teeth, straining to hold his balance.
"You can't kill me," he rasps between his teeth. "You owe me your life. I saved you! Me! I gave you grace and kept you alive until you could regain your own! You. Owe. Me!"
Castiel growls. Brings his free hand to Crowley's throat, choking him, fingers digging into the flesh and the demon feels his knees buckle. He curses, redoubling his efforts to keep his feet, to hold that glinting blade at bay. His fingers claw and scrabble at the hand clamped to his throat. He's fighting for his life and he knows he is losing.
"C-Cas," he chokes. "Kitten, p-please." Later, if there is a later, he will exact revenge for being thus reduced. He feels himself weakening. The edges of his vision grow dark and the arm holding Castiel's wrist begins to shake.
Castiel shudders. He makes a choking sound. His fingers slacken on Crowley's throat and he drops the angel blade. Crowley watches it skitter to the floor, wonders if there might be some way to reach it. But his attention is brought back to the angel as heavy hands fasten on his shoulders. Castiel grips him, doubling over. He cries out with agony. His skin blisters and peels before Crowley's eyes and the angel spews blood from his mouth.
Crowley winces as the blood spatters his face and the front of his coat. He grabs Castiel's hands and peels them off, pushing the angel away, wrinkling his nose with distaste.
Castiel stumbles falls to his knees. He claws at his face, screaming now and Crowley swallows. He watches as the angel falls writhing on the floor.
"It's just a spell. It can't kill a seraph." Crowley wishes he was more convinced of that. He stoops and reaches for the dropped blade, snagging it with his fingertips and pulling it closer. Picks it up and holds it defensively.
A deep wrenching cough and Castiel spews blood and a wisp of grace onto the floor. Crowley knows how that feels. The angel is choking, retching. More blood spills across the floor. Castiel convulses mutters a string of what sounds like Enochian and then he is still.
Minutes pass and Crowley can do little more than stand and watch. The angel doesn't move. He doesn't seem to be breathing. Crowley waits until he is certain and then he takes his cell phone from his pocket. He speed dials a number.
"I need you," he says. "I'll text you the address."