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[It's a testament to how used to Crowley is that Castiel gives the response he does, without missing a beat.]

Doubtful. Regardless, you said you were going to make me learn, and I have no need to attract a mate.

[For several reasons, some of them more awkward than others.]

Because I want to do something that doesn't involve planning for the avoidance of the next Apocalypse or dealing with insignificant hopes or listening to Meg poison the surrounding populace with her infected snatch, I want --

[And Crowley turns suddenly, to hand him a lemon, with narrowed eyes.]

-- to do something brainless. Indulge me. Hades knows I indulge you whenever you need to do something I don't give half a damn about, like save hookers or wipe away Sam Winchester's moose tears.

[Castiel takes the lemon and frowns at it a moment, before looking at Crowley.]

Last time I attempted to speak to you about Sam you asked me why you should care.

[Just saying. But he just gives his half-shrug.]

However, this is harmless enough. Fine.

Because all Sam Winchester has done is screw up my life and try to kill me. It puts a slight damper on activating the 'caring' center of my brain.

[His tone is even, but oddly serious. Sam is no friend of Crowley's, and after what's happened in the Port, he never will be. He was done with running errands for the Winchesters, he was done being their bitch. And despite Castiel being his friend, he wouldn't pretend to care about them just for his sake. That chapter of his life was over.

But again, the demon shrugs, and he turns away.]

Large land mammal rights activism aside, we have things to do.

[He wants to argue and defend Sam, but he knows it's pointless. And he doesn't want to talk about anything that happened at the moment anyway.

So he moves on.]

Have you found what you need, then?

[Can they go home and cook now?]

Yes.

[Crowley moves toward the checkout line, ignoring the greeting of the cashier in order to just place his items on the belt and slide his card, choosing instead to continue talking to Castiel.]

If you wish to continue your tragedy of the psychopath and the yeti, please do. I do so love hearing the tales of the sick bastard manipulating another poor unfortunate soul.

I had been mostly intending to ask your opinion on when to kill him.

[Not entirely true; he'd been upset in general and wanted to just sort of talk about it, but he also would have gotten to that question eventually.]

Never, because I'm going to be the one to kill him.

[Mildly, as he takes his bags and ignores the cashier's somewhat horrified expression as the demon turns to leave.]

You would make it too quick.

[Castiel similarly ignores the cashier, following after the demon.]

There's no reason to draw it out. But I thought you were finished with dealing with him entirely.

I can exhibit a lot of patience when necessary.

[He pauses outside before snagging the ends of Castiel's sleeve with a finger and suddenly, they're home again.]

[Okay, good. Home.]

My patience is running out.

[Or rather it already had. But he realize he spared Magneto three times now, once more than he owed him or saving his life. He's done doing so.]

Your patience is always running out.

[It's said in a sigh as he shrugs off his coat, draping it across a chair.]

But let's not forget that you are the one that dug your own grave with how Magneto treats you. He doesn't take you seriously because you allowed him to treat you like a weakling.

[No one took Crowley seriously until he began enacting his threats, after all.]

If you want to kill him, then do so. But you won't.

He had to carry me when I was dying of shock.

[He says it coldly, eyes dark, distancing himself from the subject. He hardly ever talks about anything that happened, after all.]

He has likely thought I was weak for a long time, and not without reason.

[He hesitates in adjusting his apron before he rolls his eyes in his direction.]

Of course he has reason. Everyone has reason to think that someone else is weak, it's called politics. You target someone when they're weak and vulnerable and you strike a deal; that's how the real world works.

[And the demon turns to Castiel, with a slight scowl.]

My advice to you, my fine feathered friend, is to stop being such a self-deprecating nuisance and start realizing that everyone has delicate moments, because that's how everyone makes a mint around here.

[In other words -- you aren't alone, so stop being a jackass.]

[Castiel is quiet, listening, and the words are oddly reassuring for how they're delivered. Crowley is right; everyone is weak at times, and he needs to let it go.

So finally he gives a sharp nod, changing subjects immediately back to the safe topic of dinner.]

How do we start?

We start by you taking off that disgusting overcoat because it isn't fit to be anywhere near food.

[As he gently shoves away the nose of the hellhound that had wandered in to greet them both -- the swordfish was not for her today.

Growley looks rather put out.]

[Castiel hesitates, but takes off his coat without argument and lays it over the top of the liquor cabinet.]

Fine.

[He pets Growley on the head.]

I'm just going to watch you, however. So it doesn't matter.

As flattering as that is, no, you aren't.

[Crowley is positively methodical as he works. Cooking is as much a science as anything else -- the cooking and cutting of meat is just as delicate a process as cutting through organs and slicing up bodies.

He supposes that's something of a morbid connection, but ah well.

Still, he carefully unwraps the fish with his fingers, not with telekinesis, before he sets the pan on the oven, lighting the flames with a twitch of his fingers, before he suddenly steps aside.]

Put the fish in the oil.

It needs to be cooked before we actually work with it.

[Castiel stare at the fish, then the oil, then back at Crowley.]

I don't know how to cook it.

[It's a lame protest because cooking is exactly what Crowley is trying to teach him. But no.]

I will do it wrong.

[He's not even allowed to touch the stove, actually.]

You rebelled against Heaven, you can cook a bloody steak.

[And Crowley nudges him forward, amused.]

You just put it in the pan.

I don't eat steak.

[But at the nudge of encouragement he carefully reaches out and takes the swordfish steak, setting it into the pan. Oil immediately spits everywhere and Castiel reels back, even though it doesn't actually hurt him. Angels aren't big on oil.]

[Crowley immediately catches Castiel from moving backward much farther with an arm at his back, pushing him forward again with a huff of annoyance.]

Grow a backbone, kitten, it's oil of the extra virgin variety, you'll get along fabulously.

You can't just leave it on the pan, you need to flip it over soon. It has to be evenly seared.

[Castiel frowns back over his shoulder at Crowley, but he peers intently at the fish for several seconds until it seems cooked on one side. Then he simply reaches out and takes the fish with his fingers, flipping it over and healing the burns he'd just sustained. Success.]

[Crowley stares at him for a long moment, mouth slightly open, as if he were trying to form words to describe what complete and utter idiocy he had just witnessed, when --

-- whatever, he flipped the fucking fish, who cares.]

Aren't you the perfect example of the Blue Light Special, kitten.

[He'd never know it was an insult.]

Congratulations.

[Indeed Castiel has no idea it's an insult, and so looks vaguely pleased at the compliment.]

What next?

[IC Contact | Siren's Pull]

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