Second installment of the Crowley "Mr. Lonely" series. Requested by anon :) “I’m having Crowley feels because I went back and re-read your previous imagines for him. They’re all amazing of course, even the 2nd time around. I was wondering if you could do a continuation of Mr. Lonely. One where the guys are gone again, maybe on a hunt that takes a few days and the reader spends the whole time with Crowley and when the guys get back they can’t find her and check with Crowley to find her curled asleep in his lap and he death glares at them making sure they don’t wake her” Alright, this imagine has been edited for reposting to boost the detail-count and cultivate a more in-depth story. I highly suggest you all read "Mr. Lonely" (also found on the "The Story Continues…" page with summaries, titles, genres, etc) before continuing on with this imagine. Hope you like it!
Sam and Dean were tossing machetes into a duffel bag when you waltzed into the Men of Letters library, desecrating a place of knowledge and peace with gleaming blades and metallic clanking of their weapons jostling inside their arsenal-on-the-go. Your arms were laden with the impossible weight of the vintage marble chess set you had managed to clear of dust and grime, their weary eyes shooting to your haul as they sorted through their supplies. Sam’s jaw clenched, his hands deftly tugging the bag’s zipper closed before hefting their travel-sized armoury over his shoulder, projecting a silent-but-deadly type of warning with his eyes before turning on his heel and parading towards the exit. He, being the more accepting brother, was less apt to express his aggravation in regards to your newfound friendships with his words. Dean, on the other hand, was every overprotected daughter’s living, breathing nightmare; this hovering father-figure actually had a shotgun, and he knew how to use it. Well. Dean sighed, shaking his head in disapproval, a grimace of disgust and caution painting his face, pulling his full lips downward. Your cheeks burnt with agonizing prickles of heated embarrassment as you readjusted the wooden box in your arms, Dean struggling all the while to find a proper format to address your situation as you shifted the weight. He held up his hand, as if to stop you from proceeding to the filing room, shooing you back to safety as he blocked your path. His gemstone eyes held yours, friendly affection contaminated by his strong dislike for the subject of your playdate.
“Just… keep it short, okay. I don’t want him getting the wrong idea about… this,” he warned, presenting you with the routine ‘he-can’t-get-comfortable-being-imprisoned’ speech, which you ignored, walking past him and towards the dungeon, your mind already scrambled, the mere thought of having three full days with the King of Hell at your side intoxicating you like a fine brandy on a lightweight drinker. Dean exhaled loudly, tossing a smaller bag over his shoulder before following his brother’s route out of the bunker. You were alone. Your footsteps echoed off of the thick concrete walls, no need to shield the sound this time around. Crowley was expecting you.
After a five minute hassle with the box and the door (your coordination was about ten pounds off-balance), you were able to shove the business facade aside to reveal Crowley’s makeshift prison, complete with a bruised convict, chains and all. You would have called for help, if your only companion wasn’t chained to his chair. The convict in question grinned warmly, wincing as his lip split open, the heat draining from his body as his fingers prodded the injury, chains jangling loudly. You sprinted (as much as one carrying an addition few pounds of carved marble figurines can sprint) to his table, the box colliding with the table with a piercing clang, your shirtsleeve dabbing at the pinpricks of blood pooling from the tear in his severely chapped lips, your wrist prickled by his untrimmed stubble. He grimaced at the touch of cotton against the open wound, but allowed you to tend to him.. You momentarily lost your breath, your memories carting you to the last night of the year, your body consumed by overwhelming spontaneity, your mouth crashing into his before the Winchester brothers turned. It had been so simple, so instinctual… the way Crowley had molded his lips to yours, his breath rushing over your face, your heart rate skyrocketing as his lips brushed against yours. You willed your thoughts back into order, retracting your sleeve from those… those tantalizing lips, rolling the cuff up your arm until the blood was hidden. He sighed apologetically, unaware of your state of fantasy, mumbling a thank you before you hopped up onto the table, crossing your legs in front of you, an excited, uncertain smile erupting upon your face. His brow furrowed in confusion, your hands unhooking the tarnished silver latches on the carrying case of your treasure. You paused, hands resting against the lid. Your eyes met Crowley’s, his irises burning low with uncertainty. After a moment of tense silence, he spoke.
“Y/n, darling, enough with the foreplay. You’ve got a box… feel free to clue me in any time you see fit,” He joked,chuckling, his eyes holding fast to the mysterious cask before him. You were sure he thought you had brought some elaborate torture device, his eyes betraying his amusement when you removed the sparkling white King. He rolled his eyes, the metallic jingling of his bindings reminding you that he was your prisoner, that you shouldn’t be fraternizing with the enemy… but the chains carryied a sort of merry tinkle now, banishing your straying logic. He was now more friend than foe, regardless of his past actions against the Winchesters. Crowley had yet to harm you personally, therefore your friendship was justified. You would gladly (if somewhat warily) dismiss his infractions. You slid the massive casket of soldiers in his direction, putting the pieces within his reach. “Chess? Since when do hunters play chess?” he inquired, his hand slipping into the box to retrieve the gleaming black Queen, admiring the craftsmanship, the curves delicate despite their tough exterior. You lined up his pieces close enough for him to handle before removing the thick wooden board, lacquer gleaming in the fluorescent lighting of the naked bulb dangling overhead. You moved your pawns to attention, the milky contrast to the creamy board shouting deliciousness. Crowley brought his army to the front lines, sheltering the royals behind a wall of pawns.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just bash my career,” you smirked, your eyes flashing to his to see a grin pulling his lips. He was glad that his jab had elicited some kind of emotion out of you. “Since I pity you, you know, all chained up and pathetic, I’ll let you go first,” Crowley rolled his eyes playfully, shifting closer to the table, his chains prohibiting much movement. “Tell me about your mother,” you demanded, his eyes snapping up in questioning shock, a hint of anger, a tang of longing, a flash of adoration blooming in his usually stoic irises at the mention of such a distant recollection. He raised and lowered his eyebrows, sighing deeply.
"So it’s going to be like this, eh?" He grumbled, submitting to your request. He embarked on a short tirade about his mother’s ghastly occupation and lack of adoration while moving his glistening stallion to stand guard before both his pawns and his Queen, his calloused fingers lingering on the steed’s immobile mane for a second too long after he finished his thought. “Your move, love," He whispered, smiling grimly. Your hand laid against the piece of choice, contemplating patterns of movement. "I suppose I’d like to know who died,” he decided, lacing his fingers together to a chorus of metallic clinks, his vagueness a clear sidestep to keep from insulting or offending you. Your hand froze atop your pawn, your lips pursing. You dropped your gaze to the chessboard, understanding his choice of interrogation. One didn’t become a hunter for shits and giggles. Something had to go wrong before anyone went chasing monsters, guns blazing. You inhaled slowly, moving your pawn forward two spaces. It wasn’t who died, but who had survived. You were the only remaining member of your family after the wendigo attacked your camp, your lust for revenge fueled by the two men you met when day broke in the thickest part of the forest. They came armed with rifles and flamethrowers, while you were armed with a shattering heart. They assured you that they could teach how to kill the beast that had torn your life to shreds… and here you were, playing chess with a demon in a monster-proof bunker somewhere in Kansas. He dipped his head in apology, his face open for the next topic, his hands skirting over his pieces.
He won, of course, as his technique had been honed to perfection over centuries while you had an insubstantial six years under your belt. You could have sworn you saw a piece move when you relocated one of his pawns (or “disposables” as he referred to them) to your little dark kingdom graveyard to join the other soldiers you had captured… regardless, the game was over, and the bunker was growing colder as night fell. Underground housing tended to be quite unpredictable, temperature-wise. You extended your hand for him to shake, his chivalry surprising you when his lips brushed against the backside of your knuckles, a violent blush igniting across your cheekbones. He winked, holding onto your hand in his, chains going silent.
“I’m gonna… um, I’m going to head to bed. I’ll bring you something to drink in the morning,” You vowed, your body angling towards the door, Crowley’s hand tugging you closer to him, his chains scraping along the rough flooring with an alluring shriek as your body bent closer to his, your free hand catching yourself against the surface of the table, scattering a few rogue rooks.
“You’re welcome to stay, love. You and I have a history of combating loneliness, you know,” he flirted, his voice lacking the usual implications of inconsiderate innuendo. You grinned, running off to grab a blanket for the two of you to share. You may have been able to combat loneliness, but the cold was another factor entirely. The days blurred by, each passing hour spent wrapped in wool and the arms of a renegade demon king, your time occupied by laughter and stolen by tears, emotions running rampant within you. There were a few… shiftier moments… or hours, you should say, when the chains almost came off, but Crowley was not your prisoner to free. Your emotions were difficult to wrangle, but even you knew, somewhere deep within your heart, that the possibility of his fleeing the bunker once unchained was high. You would have to cope, your hands wary of the heavy metal collar as you tangled your fingers in his hair, your lips pulling on his, jingles disrupting the speechless silence. You often couldn’t remember what brought you to his lap, what sparked the touch of his lips to your neck… but you could hardly care. The second night, you drifted to sleep in his arms, his body warming yours with every beat of his heart, your head nuzzled into his shoulder, his gravelly voice humming a foreign lullaby from a time you would never be familiar with…
“There she is! Y/n, come out of there- what the Hell is going on here?” Dean’s voice was escalating from whisper to a booming ferociousness, his volume rising drastically with his second complaint. Your eyes remained closed, convinced you were dreaming, your fingers closing tighter around Crowley’s lapel. If this wasn’t a dream, you’d surely be dragged away. Crowley shushed at the hunter, irritation polluting the sound. “Oh, don’t give me that, and don’t give me that look. You might be able to seduce her, but it’s not gonna work on me.” Dean breathed, docking his volume despite his words, Sam’s heavy gait stepping into the room at the sound of conflict.
“She’s sleeping, Squirrel, can’t you see that? She isn’t dead, she’s not unconscious, she’s sleeping. Bloody Hell, you act as though I’ve burned the Pop alive,” There was a pause, the air heavy with fury and tension. Crowley’s chains shifted quietly. “I was wrong to believe humans were obsessed with decency,” he insisted, a scowl tainting his caring tone. Sam began to protest, his feet moving towards you, halting abruptly, likely from the glare you could not see. “Allow me to rephrase for the clown on stilts; wake her, and you’ll never hear another shred of information on the tablets from me, you understand? Not a single word,” He threatened, duel huffs of frustration shifting through the stuffy air. The footsteps drew nearer, the shuffling sound of heavy boots attempting soundless movement reaching for your ears. Crowley was doing all he could with his bound hands to move you into Sam’s arms. The transition was awkward, but gentle, Sam hefting you to his chest before stepping away from the demon’s downgraded throne, Dean scraping the chess pieces into the wooden box before his footsteps followed his brother’s. Sam carted you away, his gait smooth, your body barely bouncing, Crowley’s chains whispering an unspoken goodbye as the cabinets hit home.