Word Count: 1226
Characters: Sam, Crowley
“Why must you be such an angry young man?”
Sam blinked, glancing up from the book he’d been reading down in the dungeon. “Dean been listening to Styx down here again?” he asked, loud enough for his voice to carry through the doors that hid Crowley from view.
“As little as I agree with his tastes in radio stations, the lyrics did strike me as rather apropos, don’t you think?”
Sam knew Crowley was baiting him, but if he wanted to talk, perhaps he wanted to deal. They could use more demon names, after all. He slid open the doors to Crowley’s prison and looked at him expectantly.
“You're a troubled young man I can tell,” Crowley sang, his smirk matching perfectly with the taunting tone of his voice.
“What do you want, Crowley?” Sam asked, rolling his eyes.
“Thought we could have a little chat.”
Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not interested in having a chat with you.”
“If that were true you wouldn’t have opened the door.” Crowley laughed and then he cleared his throat to begin singing again, “You’re fooling yourself if you don’t believe it—”
Sam held his hands up in surrender. “If we talk, will you stop singing?”
Crowley stopped singing and smiled at him. “That depends.”
“On how much I enjoy our talk, of course.”
“We’re done here.”
“You don’t you want to hear about the demon I have stationed in DC?”
Sam sighed. “Let me guess, Obama is a demon?”
“What? No, don’t be ridiculous, Moose. His head janitor is.”
“Obama’s head janitor is a demon?”
“Technically the White House’s head janitor is a demon. Obama just lives there.”
“Right. Because that distinction is so important.”
“It is, though. He’s been the head janitor there since the Nixon administration.”
“And I don’t suppose he had anything to do with how that administration ended?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Why a janitor?”
“They get keys to every door and have the perfect cover for talking to quite literally anyone.”
“That’s almost smart.”
“I didn’t become the King of Hell on sex appeal alone.”
Sam smiled. “Touché. So, are you going to just give me the name or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”
“Tempting offer, but as I said, I just want to chat.”
“I thought that was what we were doing?”
“This is hostage negotiations; I want a chat.”
Sam regarded him uncomprehendingly, and in response, Crowley gestured with his wrists at his restraints.
“No. Not going to happen. Dean would have a field day if I let you out of there without him, and besides, I have no reason to trust you.”
“No reason to… Sam, I’m offended! After everything I’ve done for you.” Crowley protested, tone scandalized.
Sam shook his head and turned to leave.
“Fine, fine!” Crowley said, “You can keep the kinky chains on. Just do me a favor and pull up a chair, will you? Strains my poor neck to keep looking up at you.”
Sam inwardly groaned. He knew he was playing right into whatever Crowley had in store for him, but curiosity had gotten the better of him, and with Dean out on a grocery run it wasn’t like Sam had anything better to do for the next hour or two. He stepped out for a moment and returned with a chair, straddling the seat with the back of it between him and Crowley. “And what did you want to chat about?”
“You, mainly. How’s life?”
Sam was taken aback by the question. “Um, pretty good, I guess.”
“Mmm-hmm, and is everything going well between you and your brother?”
“Why’d you want to know—”
“Just curious!” Crowley interrupted, though not all that defensive despite the words.
Sam stared hard at Crowley, trying to figure out what his game was. Nothing was ever inconsequential with Crowley, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that any information he gave the guy, no matter how trivial, would someday be used against him. “Dean and I are good.” he said cautiously.
“I only ask because of what I couldn’t help but overhear back in the church. You have a very warped sense of your own sins.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean if you think letting big brother down counts as a sin worth confessing you have very little idea what a sin really is.”
“Oh, and you’re an expert?”
Crowley held his hands wide. “Hello, King of Hell? Sin is kind of my thing.”
Sam didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused. “And what sin should I have been confessing instead?”
“It really does sound better as a lyric.”
“How can you be such an angry young man, when your future looks quite bright to me?” Crowley sang.
Sam thought for a moment. “I’m… angry?”
“And that’s my biggest sin?”
“When I was doing my research on you and your brother, I happened across a series of books. Described your trials and tribulations in scandalous detail.” Crowley said, tone clever.
“Seemed to be the thing that stood out.” Crowley continued, and Sam nodded. He couldn’t very well deny it, strange as it was to hear in Crowley’s words, and stranger still to hear in the words of a Styx song. “And that’s what you think I should have confessed?”
“Confessed?” Crowley made a disgusted face. “No. Embraced, more like. But that’s not my point. You're the one they can't beat and you know it.”
Sam let out a sarcastic laugh. “I see. Thank you for the insight, Dennis DeYoung.”
“More like Tommy Shaw. He wrote it about DeYoung. Quite aptly, really.”
“The ‘angry young man’?”
“You're killing yourself if you don't believe it.”
“You’re not going to stop singing, are you?”
“Not until you admit that killing yourself to seal the gates of Hell was selfish and born out of anger, not selflessness.”
“That’s what this was about?”
“You've got it all in the palm of your hand, but your hand's wet with sweat and your head needs a rest.”
“You’re scared that I’m still planning on finishing the trials.”
Crowley glared. “It’s not exactly irrational.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry, alright? We’re going to find another way.”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “And when you don’t find another way because there is no other way?”
“Then we’ll continue doing what we’ve always done.” Sam’s lips twitched in a smile.
Crowley squinted, staring at him before it clicked what Sam meant. “Saving people?”
“The family business. Blah blah blah. Fair enough.”
“Am I still the angry young man?”
“You're fooling yourself if you don't believe it.”
“Walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
“The name of his meatsuit is Harry Goodwell.”
“My demon. The one stationed in the White House.”
“Oh." Sam had forgotten about their agreement. "Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Sam smiled and turned to leave. “Good chat, Crowley.”
“Likewise, Moose. Just take your best shot and don’t blow it.”
Crowley was still singing to himself as Sam shut the doors on him.