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Fic - Spiritual Currency - 1/1
Title: Spiritual Currency
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Crowley/Bobby
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Demons aren't supposed to have soul mates, but Crowley does; his name follows him from vessel to vessel.
AN: Written for the prompt 'Soulbonding/Soul Mates' for my Trope Bingo table.
It’s the latter half of the twentieth century when a name burns itself into the arm of his vessel – Robert Steven Singer in the bright, bloody red of a romantic soul mate – writing itself under the name Jennifer Jean Carroll that’s already there, slowly fading it out until Jennifer vanishes, leaving only Robert behind.
Crowley’s never had a soulmate before. He went through his human life without anyone’s name scrawled on him, and he’s not sure what to do with one now, so he ignores it. Ignores the way the name follows him from vessel to vessel, overwriting the names already there until he deliberately chooses a vessel without one. One where Robert Steven Singer in its blood-red letters will be the only name. Where the soul mate he’s ignoring won’t erase somebody else’s out of sheer stubbornness.
He doesn’t go looking for him. He keeps his arm hidden at all times – a demon with a soul mate, what would the neighbours say – and barely even thinks about it. Barely, because sometimes it does cross his mind sometimes that there’s a man out there with his name (which name?) on his arm, waiting for him (or not waiting) to knock on his door.
Demons aren’t supposed to have soul mates. They aren’t supposed to be capable of love; not once they’ve been tortured and twisted into the vicious, conniving, lying bastards that they are. It’s about power – pleasure takes an afterthought – and in Hell there’s no power in love.
So he doesn’t go looking for him. He makes sure that a bargain for Robert Steven Singer never crosses either his lips or his desk, but beyond that he does nothing. Let the guy live his life as he will – he almost certainly hasn’t done anything to deserve someone like Crowley – but somehow, divine will perhaps, or a particular sick joke, their paths cross anyway.
Robert Steven Singer is a retired hunter in a wheelchair when they meet. He’s got grey hair and a scruffy beard and he wears too much plaid and drinks too much whiskey. He wears his shirt sleeves rolled up and across the left, Crowley sees the name he’s put behind him - Fergus Roderick McLeod - in bright red edged with black for deceased. He’s not seen that name written in centuries and he can’t help but stare even though he knows he shouldn’t and it makes dear Robert look at him in suspicion.
He makes a deal to find Death. He picks Robert not just because he’s desperate – the way things are, he could have made a deal with the bloody angel - but because he wants a chance to kiss him before the world ends and a deal’s the only way he can think to do it. He can lie all he likes to the others, but even Crowley can’t lie to himself well enough to pretend that he didn’t feel it – all the way down to the twisted, black core of his being – like a jolt of electricity when their lips touched.
He slips the ability to walk again into the deal, not because the Winchesters need another gun at their backs (which they do) although that’s what he tells them, but because he’s grown fond of Robert’s snark and bluster; his practicality and wisdom and sheer humanity and he wants – as much as a demon can ever want to do something for someone else – to make Robert’s last days on earth that little bit easier.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Crowley/Bobby
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Demons aren't supposed to have soul mates, but Crowley does; his name follows him from vessel to vessel.
AN: Written for the prompt 'Soulbonding/Soul Mates' for my Trope Bingo table.
It’s the latter half of the twentieth century when a name burns itself into the arm of his vessel – Robert Steven Singer in the bright, bloody red of a romantic soul mate – writing itself under the name Jennifer Jean Carroll that’s already there, slowly fading it out until Jennifer vanishes, leaving only Robert behind.
Crowley’s never had a soulmate before. He went through his human life without anyone’s name scrawled on him, and he’s not sure what to do with one now, so he ignores it. Ignores the way the name follows him from vessel to vessel, overwriting the names already there until he deliberately chooses a vessel without one. One where Robert Steven Singer in its blood-red letters will be the only name. Where the soul mate he’s ignoring won’t erase somebody else’s out of sheer stubbornness.
He doesn’t go looking for him. He keeps his arm hidden at all times – a demon with a soul mate, what would the neighbours say – and barely even thinks about it. Barely, because sometimes it does cross his mind sometimes that there’s a man out there with his name (which name?) on his arm, waiting for him (or not waiting) to knock on his door.
Demons aren’t supposed to have soul mates. They aren’t supposed to be capable of love; not once they’ve been tortured and twisted into the vicious, conniving, lying bastards that they are. It’s about power – pleasure takes an afterthought – and in Hell there’s no power in love.
So he doesn’t go looking for him. He makes sure that a bargain for Robert Steven Singer never crosses either his lips or his desk, but beyond that he does nothing. Let the guy live his life as he will – he almost certainly hasn’t done anything to deserve someone like Crowley – but somehow, divine will perhaps, or a particular sick joke, their paths cross anyway.
Robert Steven Singer is a retired hunter in a wheelchair when they meet. He’s got grey hair and a scruffy beard and he wears too much plaid and drinks too much whiskey. He wears his shirt sleeves rolled up and across the left, Crowley sees the name he’s put behind him - Fergus Roderick McLeod - in bright red edged with black for deceased. He’s not seen that name written in centuries and he can’t help but stare even though he knows he shouldn’t and it makes dear Robert look at him in suspicion.
He makes a deal to find Death. He picks Robert not just because he’s desperate – the way things are, he could have made a deal with the bloody angel - but because he wants a chance to kiss him before the world ends and a deal’s the only way he can think to do it. He can lie all he likes to the others, but even Crowley can’t lie to himself well enough to pretend that he didn’t feel it – all the way down to the twisted, black core of his being – like a jolt of electricity when their lips touched.
He slips the ability to walk again into the deal, not because the Winchesters need another gun at their backs (which they do) although that’s what he tells them, but because he’s grown fond of Robert’s snark and bluster; his practicality and wisdom and sheer humanity and he wants – as much as a demon can ever want to do something for someone else – to make Robert’s last days on earth that little bit easier.