Who'da thought, baby? We're civilians. (dugindeep) wrote,
Who'da thought, baby? We're civilians.

Christmas Ficlet Numero Cinco: Letters From a Demon

Title: Letters From a Demon
Words: 800ish
Rating/Warning: R for quickie violence and evil images, I guess?
Summary: Crowley has his own tradition for the holidays. Writing his contracts letters.
Notes: SPN Gen, set Christmas of 2009. For breakinporcelan who not only deserves this after guessing (so long ago) how long it took to put up my Christmas tree, but also because she was my favoritest smoking buddy through all of Chicon, and one of my favorite people to have met that weekend. Our hilarious laughter all weekend was definitely a highlight! &hearts

Also! No offense to those who have any care for the two celebs I mention here. It's all in fun!

The long, dangling strand of Christmas lights flicker to life, blinking an ominous red as every other bulb has been plucked just as he’d ordered to be done. From the lounger in the corner, Crowley’s black eyes flicker to brown as he takes in the room. Christmas tree planted on end, rough cut stump holding up a cracked soul, misty fragments hovering near the ceiling; ornaments an array of buffed gold cups, dangling jewels, and human bones. His mouth quirks at the phalanges polished nearly translucent.

As one of his servants adds a metacarpal, he rises and meets the demon at the tree.

“And from which of our puppets did this one come?” he asks as he fiddles with the edge of the bone.

“Madoff,” the demon answers quietly, almost scared to have responded at all.

Crowley grins as he brings his glass to his mouth. The clinking of his fingernail at the lip of the glass is the only noise in the room before he nods and sips. “Was always wondering when the ol’ fool would bite the bullet.” He grants a look at his servant, lips tipping up and one eyebrow rising high on his forehead as recalls the death to the human form before inserting one of his owns into the business man’s life. “

He turns away from the tree and passes the bare fireplace. With one sweep of his hand flames rise up, flicking and crackling to life. “Hellfire, how I knew you well,” he smiles with a fond shake of his head.

Another demon enters, offering a tray of embossed stationary, envelopes, and an ink pen. Crowley directs him to a chair angled at his desk then moves to the liquor cabinet in the far corner. He pours from a few bottles then spins his finger above the mix, pale and dark auburn liquids swirling together as one.

Once the man is armed with pen in hand, Crowley sips and then waves his drink the air as he recites:

“Dearest Michael. I hear congratulations are in order for your current position as potential MVP. It is quite a pleasure to see you make the most of your deal just one year into our contract. Do your best with it, my little pup, for August 12, 2019 will come upon us all quicker than one would imagine. All my best.”

As the demon finishes the letter, Crowley watches intently and they share a long look.

“What do you think?” Crowley asks.

“The pup bit may be a bit much,” the demon answers quite nervously.

Crowley whistles and seconds later his hellhound rushes into the room, stopping at Crowley’s side and panting. “Well now, my dear girl,” he coos as he strokes the top of the hound’s head. “You think it’s too much?” he asks her, voice still light and playful for his beloved. “Is it too much for the mean man who hurt all those helpless dogs?”

“Maybe not,” the demon rushes to say. “Not too much at all.”

“Well, which is it?” Crowley barks. “It’s too much or it’s not enough!” With one flip of his hand, the human neck snaps, and with another flick of his wrist, black smoke pours out of the slack mouth before flowing to the ground and into the baseboard vent. Crowley looks to the other demon standing watch at the doorway. “Get yourselves some backbones! Lucifer Almighty!”

His hand keeps stroking a steady path over the hellhound’s head, every once in a while stopping to scritch at her ears. “Right, Siobhan? Right, girl?” he coos into the hound’s face. Then he scowls with her long tongue lapping at his jaw. He wipes over his chin before smirking at her. He scratches under her jaw while staring at the other demon in the room.

“Well?” Crowley asks before nodding at the chair with the now-limp body. “Letters won’t write themselves.”

The demon rushes to the desk, pushing the human to the ground and taking over the post. He looks ready and able, pen to paper.

“Who’s next on the list?” Crowley asks as he looks adoringly at Siobhan, who cocks her head and pants as he keeps scrubbing along her jaw.

Flipping through a stack of papers, the demon runs his fingertip down a long list of names. “Bush,” he finally says.

“W or H?”


Crowley rolls his eyes. “Oh, Satan in the cage! How many letters do I have to write this bozo?”

The demon zips his finger across the page then smiles at his boss. “Just this last one, sir. December 9th, 2010 is the end of his contract.”

“Ahh, yes,” Crowley nods with a prideful grin. “In that case, let’s make this one count.”
Tags: crowley you magnificent bastard!, spn

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