Title: Hearts Are Made Of Broken Glass
Chapter:13/13 (COMPLETE)
Author: pink_bagels
Genre: humour, drama
Pairing(s): Castiel/Crowley (eventually...kind of...), Dean/Crowley (eventually...kind of? o.O)
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2101
Disclaimer: You kidding? I own nothing.
Warnings: Some spoilers for the seventh season and some deviation from canon at the end of the sixth.
Note: This story did go on hiatus for a number of months, but I do think I've mentioned I'm a stubborn completionist-there's more done offline, so it will be finished :) Hope you enjoy it!

Summary: Hell is no place for a brooding, guilty angel. So, Crowley sends Castiel on a crossroads mission. Big mistake.

HEARTS ARE MADE OF BROKEN GLASS—chapter thirteen

Warm winds cascaded across his senses, its clean, salt scent betraying where he was before he even had a chance to open his eyes. He blinked as he brought the peaceful vista into focus, the rush of soft tidal waves crashing against his shins. It took a few moments for him to realize he had a glass of scotch in his hand, the ice tinkling the only sound other than the whispering chorus of the ocean at high tide. He glanced down, his good leather shoes dug deep into the sand and water, his black trousers immersed nearly to his knees. Lines of salt marked that he'd been standing here for some time. He pulled his feet out of the sand and began the calm, wet trudge back to the stretch of white beach that hadn't yet been overtaken by the tide. He took a long sip of his very cold, very old scotch.

His jangled nerves properly settled, he cast his gaze onto a rather familiar flat rock, a basket with a bottle of Chablis and a single champagne glass greeting him, along with a folded beach umbrella propped next to it on the ground. A white card with glittering letters proclaiming Welcome Home caught his eye and, curious, Crowley picked it up and opened it, the familiar scrawl within giving his gut an uncomfortable punch.

"Don't panic. It's just a little sliver of Heaven, nothing more. Never let it be said I don't know how to share. xx Bella"

Unlike Bella's cliff-face, however, this section of celestial beach had a set of steps leading away from it to the right. With his glass firm in hand, Crowley forced himself to journey upward, each step a tentative exercise in doubt. The last he'd remembered he'd been clinging tight to Castiel's trenchcoat, his heart in tatters, an embarassing situation to be in, certainly, and a vulnerability he was not about to indulge in further. A pleasant beach was nice enough, but he was eager to get back to work, his blade itching for some evil souls to render—If he still had a job to go to, that is. He cast one final glance at the pure blue skies, the brilliant hues of serenity assailing his senses. Heaven. Bloody bullocks. Bella meant well, but she was a right fool if she thought this was what was going to make him truly happy. He knew where he belonged. He'd find his way back to Hell if he had to vivisection a certain meddling angel to do it.

His thoughts on Castiel were interrupted as he made his way up the final step to discover he was at the back door of a rather antiseptic suburban home, its back end a wall of glass that would give a fantastic view of the ocean beyond it. He opened the sliding door and was immediately plunged into a quiet, spotlessly clean kitchen completely devoid of any clutter, the copper pots and pans gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. There was a coffeemaker bubbling on the black marble counter. He put his now empty scotch glass into the stainless steel sink and made his way through the rest of the house, curious as to how this kind of scrubbed, white cleanliness was supposed to make him feel at ease. His own style was significantly more gothic, with thick leather furnishings and roaring brick fireplaces that were the sole illumination in the dark. Not for him this washed out beige monstrosity. If Castiel had tried to build him a Heavenly prison he'd certainly missed the mark. He touched the white pillar that adorned the entranceway leading into the living room, his fingers leaving ashen smudges. Out of habit, he scrubbed the stain off with the sleeve of his suit jacket.

The living room was slightly less dull, but solely for the strange layout where several doors, a near dozen in all, were arranged in a semi-circle against the walls. There was a set of stairs leading to the second floor, where a similar set up was arranged, with many, many more doors, their number seeming to stretch into an infinity that spiralled outward and down into a neverending corridor. Crowley opened the one nearest the Swedish styled fireplace in the centre of the living room, and was quite suprised to see it led to his upper office in Hell. He closed the door and opened the one beside it, discovering to his shock that it opened into his beloved torture dungeon. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief and step in, only to be halted by a strong hand on his shoulder.

"I trust this arrangement will suffice," Castiel said.

Crowley bristled at this, not exactly keen to get back to the whole touchy feely business that had happened back in Bobby's basement. How bloody embarassing. He adjusted his tie and turned to Castiel, his shoulders squared. "The only arrangement I'm aware of is the one where you're squatting in my Hell so I put you on my work-to-rule program."

"I no longer have any wish to torment myself in Hell or serve you in it."

"'Ta for that. You weren't exactly employee of the month."

Castiel gestured to the various doors, a sense of pride emanating from him that was irritating in its surety. "Every door leads to any place you wish, be they specific geographical spaces in Hell or journeys throughout the earthly plane. I believe this to be a much more efficient method of travel, as it does give you a central, hidden location for those times when you are not engaged with work."

Well, now, how very thoughtful, Crowley mused, his lips pursed in smug satisfaction as he surveyed the main floor of his most frequently visited lairs. He inspected the lower levels of the Hades suburb, quite surprised to find that the roof on the quadrant on the fourth floor was now repaired, the irritating partying of martyrs no longer intruding upon his unholy space. He closed the door and opened another which led into Bobby's basement, only to quickly shut it again. Best to leave that one alone, save for extreme emergencies.

He opened another door and found a television, a huge 70" HDTV mounted on the wall, with a comfortable black leather lay-z-boy situated in front of it. He went in with Castiel close behind him, his hand grasping the remote and turning the television on. Visions of Dean Winchester eating every brand of ice cream imaginable coursed across every channel. He hastily shut if off, but not before giving Castiel a dismissive shrug. "You have your version of pornography, I have mine," he assured the angel as he left the room.

"I have created this house as a hub for your efforts," Castiel further explained. He gave Crowley what approximated as a human smile. "I hope you like it."

"I don't suppose I have another choice."

"You can change the decor if you wish."

"It is a tad urban cliche in my opinion."

Crowley opted to sprawl on the comfortable couch in front of the roaring fire in the living room, his mood significantly brighter than it had been in a very, very long while. He patted the cushion beside him, bidding Castiel to partake of this human comfort, but the angel was content to stand beside the fire pit, his tie rumpled, the lapels of his trenchcoat still wrinkled from the clutch Crowley had so severely had on them back in Bobby's insufferable, stuffy basement. "It makes me satisfied to know you have some degree of contentment," Castiel said, and if the King of Hell (AKA Crowley Himself) didn't know any better he'd say the angel was trying to say he was happy for him. "I know that suffering has been a part of your existence for too protracted a time. Perhaps this will ease your transition."

Crowley stared into the leaping flames of the open fireplace. "Transition into what?" he asked.

"Into a servant of Heaven," Castiel said.

Crowley instantly darkened at this, his good mood shot down. The flames seemed to rise with his ire, a smouldering darkness that had no room for argument left. "If I were you, I'd forget running down that hill, mate," Crowley warned him. "I'm not so stupid to think serving in Heaven is better than ruling in Hell."

"You are not a demon," Castiel reminded him.

"Really, Castiel, being a racist bigot is hardly becoming for an angel of the Lord." Crowley smirked at Castiel's growing discomfort. "Did you honestly think I was going to convert to your way of thinking? That I was going to ask for a romp in that old, overgrown garden with its weeds and poison oak and rotten apples strewn everywhere? Give me some credit. Hell will always be my true home. You've been nothing to me but a footnote."

Castiel towered over him and Crowley felt his mouth go dry. The power the angel had absolutely emenated from him, a pulsing, steady line of will that refused to abate, one that Crowley knew could easily turn him into so much hamburger with a snap of his fingers. It was a bit of thrill, really, winding him up like this. He had to wonder, how far could he tempt Castiel's ire before the angel finally succumbed and let the King of Hell have it. Castiel leaned closer, so close his lips touched Crowley's ear and damn if he didn't smell like that beautiful, peaceful ocean outside, all cleanliness and air and powerful, roaring strength...

"You clung to me at your darkest moment," Castiel reminded him. "Do not forget that."

A brief breeze, carried in on Heaven's wings, and Castiel was gone, leaving Crowley alone in his new house, every door closed. He clenched his fists, his eyes squeezed shut against the flames in the open fireplace. He knew all he had to do was ask and Castiel would return. He understood, now, that there were going to be times that the angel's company wasn't going to just be appreciated, it was going to be necessary for his own sanity. Serious barriers had been breached and the more he thought on it, the more he realized he was the one who had done it. He'd allowed an angel to brood in Hell because he'd felt sorry for him. A proper demon never would have offered such a gift. The pain he'd suffered, the contract he'd drawn with Daniel being destroyed, it had all been his own damned fault.

"Bullocks," he said, to no one.

He opened his eyes and stared into the flames, his mood more thoughtful than hateful, his usual passion for the furnace somewhat dampened. This was a dangerous prospect. It was going to make his role in Hell all the more difficult.

A slow smile began to grow at this, one full of malice and evil contentment.

Of course, this little problem did make him suffer and if there's one thing the angel Daniel was right about it was that a suffering man makes his object of torment feel every shred of it and more. Being a martyr had made his job easy, but there was a certain lack in his efforts, and the more he thought on it, the more he knew it had to do with the complete lack of empathy he'd been given in life. Castiel foisting it on him as he did gave him a more complete understanding, and with this a new way to exploit it. There was a whole avenue of misery open to him that hadn't been there before. After all, pain was easy, and trust issues were always fraught with sharp little edges of doubt and frankly playing the two notes against a person was becoming too routine in his torture sessions. Hearts, those were the thing, they were fragile, made of broken glass, and he'd certainly swallowed his fair share of them in the last day or so.

He sighed, filled with an anticipatory eagerness he hadn't felt in over a hundred years.

"Thank you, Castiel," he said, and the flames seemed to leap in response.

He knew what he needed. Another cold scotch on the rocks.

Now that was the proper way to end a perfect evening.