King of Rotten

It’s not so much the demons he’s concerned about, as it’s the hellhounds. In high numbers, they presented a considerable problem when his garrison laid siege to Hell. And that was back when he had all his grace (back when his wings still worked).

“Is any of those places near your mother’s hideout?”

No offense to Crowley’s expensive tastes, but Castiel would rather not stay in this small, vulnerable form any longer than what’s strictly necessary.

For as much as he’s loathed to admit, he had kept tabs on his mother’s whereabouts for the past few months. She’d fallen back onto previous habits; rich lovers, richer estates. Finding the one and then being dumped for the tryst she always seemed to be. 

It was a pattern that had repeated over and over again. 

     With a lift of his hand and a snap of his fingers, they’re in a well furnished suite overlooking the snow capped mountain range of Aspen. He stalks to the minibar and picks out a few refreshments for himself, completely ignoring the scenery outside of large picture windows. 

“—I can’t go to Hell like this.” It’s strange, this change in his vessel shouldn’t have affected his true form. But he feels weaker, somehow. Locked tighter within the cage of bone and sinew of his ribs.

And, while he’s grateful (reluctantly so, he tells himself) that Crowley is willing to help at all, Castiel can’t bear the thought of walking the halls of Hell right now.

     “No. You can’t. Bringing you to Hell would be like dangling veal on a stick in front of hungry dogs-- and as much as I can control my black-eyed boys, there’d be drool everywhere.” But it is a tempting thought. He’s already thinking of the perfect cage to put the little cherub in. 

Maybe next time.

Dean and Sam can handle ‘babysitting’ just fine. But they’re busy, and Castiel would rather leave them out of it if possible. 

Now he just needs Crowley to stop laughing for long enough to either help out, or leave him alone.

“I’m not a child.” Rejuvenated vessel or not. And Castiel is sure that Crowley will be laughing for a long time, but he doesn’t have time to wait him out.

“Can you help me, or not?”

      “I’ll help-- don’t worry your little head.” Never mind the fact that Castiel is requesting his mother, of all people-- well, suppose she is the best witch he knows, but she’s also a raging cun--

      “I suppose you don’t want to seem a tramp out on the street-- as, well, your normal self, you could get away with renting a motel, but I’m certain there are rules against little kids without guardianship.

“This isn’t funny.” The only reason he called the demon is that he doesn’t want to trouble Sam and Dean. They have enough on their plates without adding a miniaturized angel to their list of problems. 

At least he could drive before, and use the fake FBI badge that Dean made for him. He’s too short to reach the pedals now, and even if he could drive around — no one is going to take a child seriously.

Praying for help from his brothers is out of the question.

Crowley is his only hope at fixing this without involving the Winchesters, and that’s frustrating enough without adding laughter into the mix.

“I need you to take me to your mother.”

Oh, it is. It’s still funny. It won’t ever stop being funny-- he’ll live for centuries and still find this moment absolutely hilarious. It doesn’t help that he laughs even more at the mention of his mother.

“What-- you don’t think the Hardy Boys can handle a little babysitting?” But, oh, to be a fly on the wall and watch those idiots scramble through every text they had on spells and curses. 

He relents, a sigh tacked onto the end of amusement.

      “ never did like that whole         kissin’ thing. rather we’d just shake hands. ”

kissing azazel had left a sour taste, pun somewhat intended. though he’s long gone, that memory remains.

john shrugs his shoulders, perpetually unbothered, vaguely, vaguely interested.

        “ what’s to say you don’t steal           my soul, if i — agreed. ”

john winchester, willingly kissing a  demon? how the times have changed.

     “As tempting as that might be, dove, I'm a demon of his word.”

Though it isn’t as if he hadn’t stolen a soul before, but even then-- that soul, dear old Bobby Singer, had been given to him, willingly (albeit, on loan). 

      And he’d given it back... eventually. 

Keep your pants on

     “Please. I’m more of a kisser.” 

After all, one doesn’t become King of the Crossroads without a few kisses to his name (or hundreds upon thousands; you don’t seal the deal with a bloody hug).

      Now that he’s King of Hell, however...

Witches were nothing, if not imaginative. 

      “I’d say you have no one to blame, but yourself, feathers-- but I feel like that might hurt your feelings.” Can he laugh some more, or would that be in bad taste? 

     Because glaring up at him, is the cutest little angel of the Lord.