First Person: [The air around him feels fresh and clean. A scent tickles his nose that smelt not of sulfur and brimstone, the scent of 'home' that he had grown used to. It was something else entirely. No, he was somewhere else. He stands quite steadily in the middle of what appears to be a train station. His eyes take no less than a second to give the area a good look about. His lips purse together, a look of irritation crossed his face. Last he could remember, he pulled one of his little teleportation tricks to get out of a rather bad situation. He had MEANT to land in hell... but here he was. In you know.
Not Hell.]
Right. [He calls out, expecting an answer immediately. There had better be an immediate answer.] Whoever's idea of a joke this was, I am both un-amused, and I've had enough of it. Show yourself, and maybe I won't shove a bloody great pole through your spine, and we can both get about our business.
[Dean and Castiel were, or should have been, shoved down nicely into the pits of a horrid place called Purgatory. But that didn't mean he was entirely safe. The second of the two Denim-Wrapped Nightmares; Sam Winchester, was still somewhere on earth. He didn't trust the moose as far as he could throw him, and he had THINGS to do. Being stood up in the middle of a train station in a place that looks like a far cleaner and quieter London was not something he had spare the time for right this moment.] Time's running short. If you don't answer, I'll turn you into giblets.
Third Person:
"Well?" the bright and smiling face of a stubbly-chinned, paunchy sort of man queried, his head tilting slightly to the side. He was looking at the man standing crosswise of him--six foot one, three hundred pounds; looked like he spent his entire life throwing about trees and eating bear for three meals a day--with the same expression a cat gives a mouse it is playing with. "Is it a deal, or are we going to stand about here all day 'Hmm-ing' and 'Haw-ing' about whether or not you're going to accept my humble little offer?"
His voice was smooth as silk, slightly accented and distinguishable as a man from somewhere in the British Isles. The man who looked like he made a weekly meal of rocks turned his head away, a single bead of sweat dancing down across his cheek, dangling for a moment over one of those cheekbones of his before dropping out of sight. "So you'll do it then," the burly man asked, in a hushed voice. As if afraid that someone was listening into this little conversation. Crowley could take a moment to assure him that there wasn't a soul for miles but... somehow he enjoyed the look of discomfort on the faces of his clients. Added to the feel of everything, you know? "See to it that my Father in Law dies. And that his inheritance goes to my wife?"
Had Crowley bothered to ask, he'd have learnt that the man's wife was sick in the hospital. A good sum of money would save her, but what with his simple handy-tire-and-brakes job, he couldn't afford the operation that could save her life. Nor could he afford the lifetime of drugs she would have to be on... if she even made it through the surgery. However, with her father's fortune--the fortune of a man with a fist so tight around his bank card--she could live a long and happy life.
"Of course." Crowley answered, a sort of spring in his words as he turned on his heel, smiling graciously at the bigger man. Another long pause, and finally the gruff-looking male nodded his head. Once, his eyes tilting down to the ground. Crowley's face lit up, his eyes dancing with delight. "The deal is done, then. Late tomorrow night, when all is quiet. The old man's going to have a tragic slip and fall. One no-one will here. Bing, bam. Boom. He'll ironically have signed over his life's worth over to your wife some months before this. Everyone lives happy." Crowley leaned up, his shorter stature clearly too much to stand eye-to-eye with this brute of a man. "If you are satisfied, then we can seal this little deal. With a kiss, of course. I don't do handshakes. Hell only knows what you've got all over those fingers of yours."
[CANON] Crowley || Supernatural || Reserved || 3 of 3]
Not Hell.]
Right. [He calls out, expecting an answer immediately. There had better be an immediate answer.] Whoever's idea of a joke this was, I am both un-amused, and I've had enough of it. Show yourself, and maybe I won't shove a bloody great pole through your spine, and we can both get about our business.
[Dean and Castiel were, or should have been, shoved down nicely into the pits of a horrid place called Purgatory. But that didn't mean he was entirely safe. The second of the two Denim-Wrapped Nightmares; Sam Winchester, was still somewhere on earth. He didn't trust the moose as far as he could throw him, and he had THINGS to do. Being stood up in the middle of a train station in a place that looks like a far cleaner and quieter London was not something he had spare the time for right this moment.] Time's running short. If you don't answer, I'll turn you into giblets.
Third Person:
"Well?" the bright and smiling face of a stubbly-chinned, paunchy sort of man queried, his head tilting slightly to the side. He was looking at the man standing crosswise of him--six foot one, three hundred pounds; looked like he spent his entire life throwing about trees and eating bear for three meals a day--with the same expression a cat gives a mouse it is playing with. "Is it a deal, or are we going to stand about here all day 'Hmm-ing' and 'Haw-ing' about whether or not you're going to accept my humble little offer?"
His voice was smooth as silk, slightly accented and distinguishable as a man from somewhere in the British Isles. The man who looked like he made a weekly meal of rocks turned his head away, a single bead of sweat dancing down across his cheek, dangling for a moment over one of those cheekbones of his before dropping out of sight. "So you'll do it then," the burly man asked, in a hushed voice. As if afraid that someone was listening into this little conversation. Crowley could take a moment to assure him that there wasn't a soul for miles but... somehow he enjoyed the look of discomfort on the faces of his clients. Added to the feel of everything, you know? "See to it that my Father in Law dies. And that his inheritance goes to my wife?"
Had Crowley bothered to ask, he'd have learnt that the man's wife was sick in the hospital. A good sum of money would save her, but what with his simple handy-tire-and-brakes job, he couldn't afford the operation that could save her life. Nor could he afford the lifetime of drugs she would have to be on... if she even made it through the surgery. However, with her father's fortune--the fortune of a man with a fist so tight around his bank card--she could live a long and happy life.
"Of course." Crowley answered, a sort of spring in his words as he turned on his heel, smiling graciously at the bigger man. Another long pause, and finally the gruff-looking male nodded his head. Once, his eyes tilting down to the ground. Crowley's face lit up, his eyes dancing with delight. "The deal is done, then. Late tomorrow night, when all is quiet. The old man's going to have a tragic slip and fall. One no-one will here. Bing, bam. Boom. He'll ironically have signed over his life's worth over to your wife some months before this. Everyone lives happy." Crowley leaned up, his shorter stature clearly too much to stand eye-to-eye with this brute of a man. "If you are satisfied, then we can seal this little deal. With a kiss, of course. I don't do handshakes. Hell only knows what you've got all over those fingers of yours."