Old Shuck

Chuck knew he had messed up, he’d stayed too long in one place and people were starting to notice. He’d let himself run free as Shuck, he needed it. Needed to run on all fours and hunt. 

He meant for it to only be a rabbit or some kind of local animal but his other self hadn’t felt the same - now there were two bodies mangled by something that no officials could pin point and he knew it wouldn’t be long until a hunter came to investigate and whilst he wished he could leave the town, he couldn’t; he was too weak from the hunt, from changing to the Shuck and back again.

So here he was, laying in a hotel room, waiting for his body to get back to normal before he continued on his travels all while trying to keep an eye on the investigation and keeping an eye out of hunters.  

“Mmm, drink and a talk,” Crowley repeated, leaving the bottle where it was and coming around now to the pool table; the game was in absolutely miserable straits. He could only hope someone was being hustled over it. “Sounds more like you’re here to waste my time.” A casual remark for a casual setting, said casually to the game in front of him but clearly addressing the only other man in the room.

He’s the King of the blood Crossroads, he hasn’t got time for small fish, iffy bids, or whinging arseholes just looking to chat. Even if said arseholes were former terrors of Europe and the source of his childhood nightmares.

Witchy mother, witchy stories, and always the fear the Black Shuck leaping through his window and gobbling him up.

“My my, how the mighty have fallen,” he replied sardonically, turning now to look over his shoulder–his face once again schooled into perfect boredom, unamused, unimpressed, and altogether quite finished with this drink and talk nonsense. “You’d have my condolences, darling, if I still handed those out.” Empty words, empty promises, lie upon lie upon lie. Crowley set the drink and began to wrack the balls up for a new game: he was out of Hell, wasn’t he?, even if it was on a pointless errand. May as well take a few moments to stretch his legs, indulge a bit here–and then go indulge a bit somewhere else, somewhere worth the indulging, with company worth the indulging as opposed to washed-up, flea-bitten, rabies-infested former moor mutts.

“So then, Chuck,” the name said almost derisively, barely withholding from passing comment on the lackluster creativity it indicated to him, “let’s hear what you wanted so desperately to talk about, so I can decide if it’s worth my time or if I ought to be off in the pleasant desert.”

“Technically I’m wasting my time, but from what I’ve heard you’re the king so what do you really do any way? Tell the other demons to do your old job? My that must be hard.” Chuck rolled his eyes, he’s wasn’t going to be spoken to like that. 

He watched Crowley with lazy eyes, he wasn’t too impressed with the so called king, after all he expected more... something, he wasn’t sure what it was but he knew the other was missing it. He finished his drink and got another. He thought of what he was going to say, letting the other wrack up the balls. 

It was a divey little bar in a divey little town that Crowley found himself strolling into that night. Always happened this was for a crossroads demon, didn’t it? Never a nice pub nearby, a pretty park, a truly scenic location–always a dumpy bar and a dumpy, desperate, pathetic little toad of a person looking to deal. He might have his pick of the litter as King of the bloody Crossroads, but that didn’t stop him from having to pick up the slack in the grunt work department when his own morons wouldn’t do.

It was a noisy, crowded, crooked place he stepped into, billiard balls knocking together at several tables, a jukebox fairly bellowing some country-yodeling hick hit about sad wives and empty whisky bottles, people shouting and talking and laughing–a rush of unwelcomed sound after the near-silence of the street outside–and rather than deal with it and his sharp disdain for it all that evening, Crowley snapped his fingers.

And in a blink, the bar was gone.

(Or, to be more accurate, the people in the bar were gone, save Crowley and the sad little man he’d be dealing with this evening.)

“Charming locale, really,” sauntering up to the jukebox and ripping the electrical cord from the socket, putting an end to the singer’s pitchy whinging, “but not terribly conducive for business, is it, luv?”

Crowley smiled at the man–past the man, really, already quite decided to not see him and just get this over with quickly–and moved around the back of the bar. He didn’t want a drink, certainly not of the questionable calibre that would be on-hand here, but a prop tonight wouldn’t go amiss.

“So then. You showed up, buried the box, said the magic words and blah, blah, blah….” Drink on the counter and hand still wrapped around the bottle he poured from, Crowley looked up in the other man’s direction. “What’s it to be?”

Chuck had been bored travelling around and even with the talk of demons running around and a new king of hell... well he didn’t bother to look much into it. Until he found out that the new king was once a cross roads demon and well... then he was intrigued.

He didn’t really know why he did it, he didn’t exactly have a deal with make with the other, but he thought it would be polite to meet him and let him know he was here, after all he would hate to have a run in with the guy and accidentally attack him, not with the rumours that he has hell hounds. He hated those dogs. 

Once he’d buried the box and made himself comfortable in the bar he waited and waited, until the smell of the demon came and filled up the bar, along with the lack of noise, “Very impressive...” He muttered with a role of his eyes, “I don’t really want anything, expect to have a drink and talk.” 

“You seem to be looking for someone, can I help?”