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The Wanting Comes In Waves

All Sam/Dean, All The Time

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avsc, mine

Fic: No Small Matter

Title: No Small Matter

Author: smalltrolven

Characters: Sam, Dean, Cas, Crowley, Gavin

Word Count: 2,900

Rating: G, Gen

Warnings: Temporary character death

Summary: Set in a time between 9.21 King of the Damned and 9.23 Do You Believe In Miracles, a dreaming (or is he?) and deeply conflicted Crowley gets to experience his very own version of A Christmas Carol. What happens after that surprises more than just him.

Author’s Notes: Not my characters, only my words. Written for princess_schez for the 2014 CrowleysChristmas fic exchange based on prompt 1. “A Supernatural version of A Christmas Carol, with Crowley as Ebenezer Scrooge, Gavin as Jacob Marley, Cas as the Ghost of Christmas Past, Dean as the Ghost of Christmas Present, and Sam as the Ghost of Christmas Future. Did it actually happen, or did Crowley imbibe on too much of the Winchesters special eggnog? Maybe something based on this pic here:

Read it over on AO3 right here.


“Father? Papa? Oh Daddy-most-dearest? Aren’t you awake yet?” The vaguely familiar and very sarcastic voice floats through the thick curtains surrounding his bed.  Father? Who in the Seven Hells would dare to call him those things? He is father to no one. He sits up and yanks his eyeshades off, tossing them onto the side table.

“Och. There you are, ye sleepy-head, just like I remember. I’m just popping in to give ye a heads-up, Old Man. Ye’re going to be having a lively old time of it tonight,” the voice is given a face, which appears between the maroon velvet bed curtains which are yanked apart. The young man looks so familiar, but it can’t be him. “Yes, it is I, your son, returned to bring you tidings from the Great Beyond.” Gavin bows and gives him a grin that looks as sharp as one of those angel blades Crowley’s gotten so fond of lately.

“Is that really you, Gavin?” Crowley asks, rubbing his eyes to get the sleep out, and maybe chase away this strange vision.

“Has it been that long that you dinna recognize your kin? You only sent me away a few weeks ago,” Gavin scolds, wagging a finger at him.

Crowley swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands up, his nightshirt falling to cover his knees.  Gavin scoops up the nightcap and gently places it on Crowley’s head, giving it a little pat.  “Have you nothing to say to me, Father?”

“How are you here? I sent you across the world,” Crowley finally says, shoulders slumping in the face of this unwelcome blast from the past standing before him, enthusiastic grin disappearing the second his question is asked.

“No idea. I just got word I got to come find ye for a wee visit. And now that I’ve told you the news, I’ll take my leave. I know you dinna want me around.”

“Gavin, I…I don’t know what to say, I wish I hadn’t sent you away. I hope this doesn’t mean you’re really dead,” Crowley says with a rueful shrug.

“Now that is a surprise that you’d care. You’ve changed father. Ta,” Gavin says, passing through the solid locked and bolted door, yanking a long, noisy steel chain behind him, festooned with Crowley’s old tailoring tools, scissors and various sharp implements.

Crowley sits back down on the bed, surprised by his son’s abrupt exit.  The brief and confusing visit over much too soon, no matter how unwanted it might have been. Ever since the injections of human blood that Sam Winchester gave him, his annoying human emotions keep creeping into every single decision. It’s driving him absolutely barmy. He hates that Gavin kid, always has, but he doesn’t want him dead just because Abaddon dragged him into his mess of a life.

He lays down across the duvet, staring up at the velvet draperies above the bed, attempting to calm himself. It’s the middle of the night, and the eggnog that the Winchesters left him with when they took away his bags of A+ is long gone. Sam’s advice was that he stick to human drinks, not drinking humans, not terribly helpful on this second attempt at going cold turkey.


“Your presence is required, Crowley,” an all too familiar voice breaks into the lovely dream that he’d gotten back into, something about both of the Winchesters hooked up to reverse blood-transfusion machines. All that lovely ruby liquid being stored in an enormous glass jar with a spigot at the bottom. And him about to swill a crystal goblet full of primo vintage Winchester blood. The taste of it still tingled on his tongue in his dream-memory.

Crowley peeks one eye open, even though he already knows who it is. He’d know that deep, inflectionless voice anywhere. “They’ll just let anyone in here these days,” Crowley complains.

“Give me your hand,” Castiel demands. “We need to leave. Now.”

“What? No foreplay, darling?” Crowley teases, sitting up slowly and reaching out to take Castiel’s extended hand. Why was he dressed in that strange white robe? “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you are wearing white gloves.”

“It is part of the required attire, it is no concern of yours,” Castiel says.

“Well, mate, wearing white after Labor Day just isn’t done. Or didn’t they teach you that in angel charm school?”

“There is no angel charm school.”

“Shocking, really?” Crowley snarks, shutting up when he feels Castiel grip his arm and pull him through a noisy whirl of sound and flashing lights. He grabs for Castiel’s hand and holds on tight.

“You are being sarcastic with me. I am choosing to ignore it so that I may point out that we have arrived. I was told you would know what to do next.”

“Told by whom, exactly?” Crowley asks, staring at the bucolic farmland around him.  A bee buzzes by his head.

“Again, no concern of yours,” Castiel answers, eyes following the bee with sudden interest. “Just watch as it unfolds again.”

Crowley drops Castiel’s gloved hand as he takes in the sight around him. It is the scene of the crime so to speak. One of his most recent and most glorious coups. He watches himself talk to Dean Winchester about the demon they were hunting together. He sees Dean grasp Cain’s forearm as the Mark of Cain is transferred between them. “What? Am I supposed to feel remorse or something? This was one of the best things I’ve ever done since becoming King of Hell. Dean’s so close to being mine now.”

Crowley could have sworn he hears Castiel growl, but angels don’t growl do they?

“Crowley, if you believe this was the best thing you’ve done, then you definitely will need the other two visitors you’ll receive tonight,” Castiel answers, turning away from watching Dean having to struggle with the pain of the Mark now marring his forearm.

“This is what I do, you ruddy git. I’m a demon, remember?” Crowley barks, staring at the delicious waves of pain he can see coming off of Dean. It’s even better watching this for the second time.

“This I know quite well, from personal experience. But you are not just a demon any longer are you?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Crowley lies, turning away from Cain and Dean. “Take me home.”

“As you wish,” Castiel says with a slight bow, the white hood of his robe dipping down to cover most of his face, hiding his piercing blue eyes. “But know this, what you did on this day will likely become your undoing.”

Crowley feels Castiel’s gloved hand on his arm, and then a sensation of being yanked through the messy whirlwind, until he’s back on his bed, this time under the covers.  He shakes his head and looks around the empty room, he looks at the bottle of eggnog and wishes he hadn’t drunk all of it. After that crazy dream, he could use something strong.


He awakens to the sound of something jingling and noisy boots stomping across his floor. “Crowley! Up and at


Crowley sits up to see Dean Winchester striding across the room, he’s dressed in a long, red velvet robe trimmed with lush fur at the collar and cuffs. The jingling sound is coming from the curving wooden staff he holds that has a festive garland with at least one hundred brass bells. The worst part is the wreath crowning his head, all that greenery, bringing out Dean’s eyes. He can never get enough of those eyes.

“You can’t just sit there, we gotta go dude,” Dean says, standing over him.

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Squirrel. Not when you’re wearing the whole bloody forest on your head.”

Dean grins that one-sided, brilliant smile that Crowley’s always found so damnably attractive, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Hey, don’t knock my duds, I picked this out myself, had to look the part.”

“What part?” Crowley asks, eyes traveling up and down Dean’s form, the man looks so fine even in this shapeless robe.

“Ghost of Christmas Present, duh. C’mon, Dickens, Christmas Carol, ringin’ any bells? Wasn’t he one of your dudes?” Dean asks, shaking the carved staff at him causing all the bells to ring in a pleasant cacophony.

“What the Hell kind of dream is this?” Crowley demands.

“Far as I know, not a dream. But c’mon, we’re outta here,” Dean reaches forward and grabs Crowley’s wrist, pulling him up and out of the bed, he cringes, expecting to hit the floor, but instead, that whirling blanket of noise and sound hits him again and when it stops he gasps. They’re in the Men of Letters bunker, in what must be Dean’s room. The real Dean is laying on his bed, with his normal hunter pajamas on, completely dressed, boots and all. But Crowley notices the headphones, and how Dean’s jaw is clenched and his fists wrapped around the First Blade, his whole body tight as if preparing to fight. Crowley turns as he hears footsteps, and a knock at the door.

“Dean? You awake?” Sam’s soft voice comes through the door. Crowley sees Dean’s body tense up even further when he hears his brother’s voice. Dean sits up slowly and silently, transferring the First Blade to one hand, preparing to attack.  Crowley gasps at the thought, of Dean actually harming his not so little brother.

“You didn’t?” Crowley manages to ask.

“Not yet, no,” Dean answers with a sad shake of his wreathed head. “But it’s getting harder not to. Every day I have to fight it.”

“Is it the Blade or the Mark?”

“It’s both of them together. It wants me to kill him, Crowley. It won’t stop until I’ve done what Cain did to his brother. I can kill all the demons, or humans or whatever, but it’s never enough. It’s never gonna be enough.”

“I didn’t know it would do that,” Crowley answers, his stomach turning at the thought of what he’s brought Dean to.  “I needed you to kill Abaddon for me, then I thought we could maybe have some laughs.”

“You didn’t think The Mark of Cain would involve fratricide, really? I’m supposed to believe that?” Dean asks him, all trace of humor completely gone as he watches himself on the bed, struggling not to answer the door and slice up his brother with the ugly bone blade.

“You don’t have to believe me, Dean. But no, I never intended this. You and your brother have been a huge pain in my ass for a long time now. But this isn’t how I wanted it to go.”

“Is that regret I hear? You apologizing or somethin’? Save it, buddy, apologies won’t keep me from killin’ Sam,” Dean says with a blast of cold fury.  His green eyes dim and go cloudy. Crowley shivers, with cold or fear, he’s not sure which.  “We’re done here, you saw what you were supposed to.”

Dean grabs his wrist again and yanks, much harder this time, spinning him backwards through the whirlwind, so that he lands hard on the side of his bed. The last thing he hears is an angry jingle of those damned bells and Dean’s angry stomping retreat.  He groans to himself at the thought of another visitor, Castiel had said there’d be three of them. Crowley drifts off with the hope that it’ll all be over soon and he’ll wake up with a nice new delivery from the blood bank.


“I see the eggnog did the trick,” a voice that has never been friendly is now even more chilling. He wishes he could just go back to sleep, so he pulls the covers over his head.

“None of that. Let’s get this over with,” the voice says again, sending a chill through his bones at the sound of the implacable determination. The covers are ripped away and he looks up into Sam Winchester’s face, darker and more brooding than usual. He’s cloaked in a nearly black robe with an immense hood that shadows his intense eyes. What is with all the robes and hoods? Is this some sort of stage play?

“I’m really not in the mood, Moose,” Crowley says, trying to cover up how terrified he really is at the barely contained fury he sees in Sam’s face.

“I really don’t care, we’re going,” Sam says, reaching out to grasp his ankle, yanking him up and off the bed, upside down. He barely avoids hitting his head on the floor. He dangles there in Sam’s grip, his nightshirt falling to cover his face. “Wow, you really did need those three inches.”  Before he can respond to that horrific insult to his manly pride, Sam’s pulling him through the all-too familiar whirlwind and he’s sprawling on the ground. The very cold, very wet ground, the chill of the melting snow seeps immediately through his thin nightshirt. He scrambles to stand up and realizes he’s in the middle of a vast cemetery.

Crowley hears a muffled cry of pain or sorrow, and spins around to see Gavin kneeling in front of a tombstone. His curly-haired head is bent, body folding in on itself as he kneels in the drifts of snow. Walking slowly to stand behind his son, he looks over his shoulder and sees his own hated name inscribed on the grey granite marker.

Here Lies Buried

Fergus Roderick MacLeod

Finally Gone, Already Forgotten

“Ah, c’mon! He knows I hate that name,” Crowley protests.

Gavin stops his crying, stands unsteadily to pour out the small remains of a large bottle of whiskey. “I never knew ye father, and I hated ye for it. Ye left me not once but twice, and there’s no forgiving that, not never. Have this to go with your damn Buchanan’s, it’s more than ye deserve of me,” Gavin says, throwing the bottle to explode into fragments against the tombstone.  Crowley hears water falling and realizes Gavin is urinating on his grave. His own son.

“How did I die?” Crowley asks, watching Gavin stumble away from the graveside, disappearing into the gloom.

“I killed you,” Sam answers, a note of hollow triumph in his voice. “You tried to make Dean into something he was never meant to be. And you had to pay.”

“After all I’ve done for you?” Crowley asks, truly surprised to hear that Sam Winchester finally carried through on his threats.

“Don’t even try that, Crowley. You deserved this and you know it,” Sam says, shaking his head. “No one mourns you. Not one single person, not one demon, or angel. We’re glad you’re finally gone.”

“Don’t be that way, Moose,” Crowley pleads.

“What do you care? You’re a demon, right?” Sam counters, straightening up to loom even larger over Crowley’s head.

“No, not just a demon. You know that, you were there,” Crowley finally admits.

“Well, if you want things to turn out differently, then prove it, back where it counts,” Sam says, suddenly gripping his shoulder and throwing him back into the whirlwind of noise and light. Crowley lands face down in the middle of his bed, the cold wet nightshirt sticking to his back.  He shivers at the thought of dying so alone and so un-mourned. And he is furious that he cares.

There’s the thin light of dawn peeking through the window shades and he stumbles over to look outside.  It’s snowed overnight, and it’s beautiful and sparkling clean out there, everything covered in a blanket of white.  He quickly dresses in his normal black suit and sits on his throne, summoning his latest helpers.  They question his every order, but eventually carry them out once he’s killed two or three of them in a gruesome enough fashion to inspire obedience.  Soon enough, his cell phone rings with the strains of “Back in Black.”  A text from Dean has appeared.

Sam says thanks for the books on the Mark. We’re enjoying the whiskey too. Merry merry, ya bastard.

Crowley chuckles to himself and props his feet up on the throne’s soft footstool. Maybe it was all just a dream. But he’d rather have the Winchesters around to deal with a little longer, especially if it means he can avoid what happened in the end of that awful dream.

Later that day, one of his demon helpers arrives with a thick envelope.  He opens it slowly, the heavy-weight stationery feels rich and almost creamy.  An engraved invitation to his son’s wedding in Scotland in a few months. He chuckles at the thought of his boy managing to figure out the modern world well enough, and fast enough to snag himself a rich, Scottish girl.  Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all that. Before he changes his mind, he sends his RSVP via a demon messenger bearing what he hopes are appropriate gifts.  He’s got a son and soon to be daughter-in-law to get to know now.

~The End~