king of the crossroads.

@oathwilled + @weavewilled

@oathwilled + @weavewilled

—— WHETHER I CONDEMN THIS WORLD OR NOT, I CHOOSE YOU.

Brows climb. ❝ But I do, ❞ the demon says, and oh, it's so true, isn't it? He knows it, and that's the dangerous part. But —— how dangerous is he, these days? It's been something he's remarkably enigmatic about, and probably for good reason. But the truth is: his powers are waning, more humanity creeping in day by day, no matter how much he fights. He hides it, because what else can he do?

He braces a hand against the side of the vehicle as it jerks, swerves, and he grits his teeth. This kind of travel is —— inconvenient. Slow. But he also won't talk about how he really can't teleport around like he used to. ❝ Maybe I'm just fucking curious about what in the hells you're planning. ❞

It's not like Crowley has never been to Church. He was not raised in it — his mother had much, much wilder gods and older ways, and even though she was not kind to him when growing up, he absorbed some of those ways regardless, especially after she left and he was raised by others. When he was first made into a demon, he could not cross over holy ground —— but as he grew in power, hallowed ground was no longer such a restriction, but it wasn't exactly ever comfortable.

He trusted Crowley not to do anything too stupid. Was it stupid, summoning a demon without Michael? Incredibly so.

But it’s Crowley. He’s different.

“Would I have summoned you if I hadn’t tried already…?” The Milligan sighed, running his thumb over the back of his hand out of habit. A calming motion, even if his typical occupant is gone.

“Does it have to be that the world is ending? I try to stay out of that stuff at this point.. I just want peace.” Not a lie. He’s done his piece… his own want to save the world having been what had damned him. Had warped his soul into the tattered mess it now was. No, he didn’t want to be a hero anymore.

Let it be someone else’s story.

“I’m allowed to worry about my people, ya know. And you happen to be one of them. So no text back, no call, not even a damn email… I’m going to do what I have to.”

He finds nothing. Nothing holding him here, nothing to prevent him from just —— leaving. He could leave this conversation in a blink, be gone and back where he started. There was a day where he would have without a second thought — he doesn't like uncomfortable conversations, especially when it's those that touch into his own damned vulnerability.

But he doesn't.

❝ Not many summon a bloody demon without a purpose. ❞ He's not even king anymore, not really — and he doesn't have any regrets for it. The job was wearing on him, scouring his bones clean, and being rid of it feels like a breath of the only freedom he's had since he can remember. The why makes his brows knit, and there's a twinge of hard-earned guilt somewhere deep.

Keen eyes watch the doorway Dean disappeared to — he's both curious and knowing, and it's probably a dangerous combination. He gives away little. ❝ Hell? Oh, Hell is just fine. Mundane, even. ❞ The glass is offered, and he takes it smoothly, brows inclining; if Dean wants a brawl, insulting his mother is not the way to do it. That just may get on his good side.