“This is completely ridiculous!” Despite his best efforts, Crowley’s roar was more likely to inspire pity than cowering, even to his own ears. “I do not need a cup of tea. I do not need a blanket, or my temperature taken, or a nap, or any of the rest of this bloody nonsense – I am not sick!”
A wooziness just about dragged him down into the plumpness of the pillow. He rallied against it, if only momentarily.
“I,” he crankily reminded his caretaker, “am a demon!”
Balancing a full tray of cuppa, plate of chocolate-covered biscuits, thermometer, tissue box, and a vial of something vile, Donna clucked her tongue as she strode purposefully over to the couch. Crowley and the couch were old friends – he’d slept in her living room plenty of nights when they were passing through on a case. But he’d never been laid up on it like this before, and it infuriated him to no end.
“Just cuz you didn’t know ya could get sick doesn’t mean ya ain’t.”
Crowley glared at her, but Donna just beamed at him, said “scooch”, and made a little room for herself on the couch down by his feet. She held the cup of tea out temptingly.
“Sure, you’re a demon, alright. Mostly.” Her bright smile only widened at his withering look. “But apparently not so much that ya didn’t get cold from being out in that storm. Don’cha know when to get in outta the rain?”
Her teasing was having an annoyingly soothing effect.
“Just because flash flooding is a symptom of climate change and not caused by the supernatural doesn’t mean we sit around on our hands when there’s work to be done.” Crowley crossed his arms over the blanket, aware that he looked and was acting petulant, but unable to avoid it. “How the bloody hell was I supposed to know that…”
He attempted to cover up his sudden discomfort by relieving Donna of the teacup and taking a considerable swallow.
Her smile took on a softer quality to it. “That yer this close to being fully human?”
“Bah.” Crowley sputtered around the teacup. “Bloody nuisance is all it is.”
“Well,” the hunter pulled a small fold-out table close and set the tray on it. “Somehow, I don’ think the people that you pulled to safety in that bit of high water would say the same.”
The reformed demon evaded her eyes, munching on a biscuit.
“And, as a reward for your heroic efforts,” Donna picked up the remote and began to zap through the channels on the TV, “while Sam and Dean are off solving that case here in town, you’re gonna get the royal treatment here at Hanscum Spa and Wellness Resort! You got yer blanket and pillow, yer moisturizing tissues, at least three kinds a’ tea, and all the streaming services a person could want!”
Crowley grunted, considering.
“And, I’ll be here if ya need anything. Just holler!” Donna gave him a solid pat on the shoulder, in a very MidWestern way of attempting to buck him up. “Waitin’ on ya hand and foot, till the Wichesters get back or yer well enough to drive yerself home. Not a bad set-up, huh?”
No, it was not, Crowley had to admit to himself. He did not particularly enjoy feeling under the weather – it was certainly not something he had missed from his human years – but there were certainly worst people in whose care Crowley might have found himself. And he very much liked the sound of an afternoon or two of nothing but tea, biscuits, and telly.
“As it seems I have no choice,” he griped.
“Good!” Donna slapped him on the arm again, approvingly. “Whatcha wanna watch?”
Crowley considered it. A small smile curled up from out of his beard, and he gave the hunter a sly, teasing look.
“How about…How To Build A Sex Room?”
“Oh! I been wanting to watch that for ages!” Donna clapped her hands, practically beaming.
If there was anyone that Crowley could enjoy that ridiculously frivolous show with, it would be her. Or maybe Dean. The hunter could sometimes be really good to watch reality tv with, especially when it involved relationships, drama, and interior decorating. He’d once threatened to kill Crowley if the demon ever suggested such a thing to anyone, and it had been a memorable moment – the first time Dean Winchester had threatened to kill him, and they had both known it was a complete bluff.
“There’s just one thing we have to do first.” She reached for the vial on the tray.
“If that’s what I think it is,” Crowley said as sternly as he could muster, “then you can just forget about it. I’m not taking any cough syrup or bloody get-well spell, or whatever the hell that might be!”
“Oh,” Donna smiled, and it was feral in its brightness. “But’cha are.”
“Nooo,” Crowley made a surreptitious attempt to escape by sinking into and transporting himself through the pillows, “I’m bloody well not.”
But there was no escaping the good intentions of Donna Hanscum, and Crowley knew it. Even as he screwed shut his mouth and glared with all his demonic worth – which, apparently, wasn’t very much – the spoon drew nearer and nearer. The thick, green, almost gelatinous liquid threatened to spill over the side. It smelled horrid.
Being sick truly was an unpleasant experience, Crowley decided.
“Now,” Donna said cheerfully, “open wide!”
A bit under the weather myself with a slight head cold, which reminded me of this little ficlet I wrote and never posted. Set in the One of the Boys universe, where Crowley closed the Gates of Hell and permanently joined the boys.
