Title: Twisted and Misshapen

Rating: Let's just say I'll need to see some I.D.

Summary: It's thorny and shrunken and neglected, but it's still there.

Disclaimer: *grinds teeth*

Author's Note: For some reason my brain is refusing to let me write in anything other than present tense.

He can't believe it.

After all of this time… somebody finally managed it.

He doubts the Hardy Boys actually know what they've done, but it doesn't really matter. Demon and god have almost the exact same meaning in many texts, especially when the whole monotheistic religion was starting to take hold, and who really knows how to read Assyrian anyway?

The point is, those damn Winchesters have somehow managed to trap him in his current mortal body. As in, no access to his powers, no vanishing acts, and no superior strength.

It's enough to make a man (for he is, for all intents and purposes, a man now) plot heinous acts of revenge.

Just when his day couldn't get any worse… he gets the news.

She's dead.

Even at their most bitter, the lines of communication have been open between Heaven and Hell. Rumors have filtered in and out, whispers and sometimes even hard facts. The return of Metatron was certainly front-page news. The angel hasn't been seen or heard from since the Schism, when the feathery beings couldn't agree on how Heaven should be run after their precious Father deserted them. Sandalphon, Metatron's own brother, was ordered by Michael to cast him out. Those uppity bastards really are fond of turning brother against brother. At least in Hell you learn to stick together, take one for the team.

The death of Naomi, although of relative importance thanks to her high rank and specialty, is of little consequence compared to the fact that Metatron is punting angels right and left and Hell is barely saved from being sealed shut.

But it's of extreme importance to him.

Crowley surveys the dull landscape of the New World and wishes he were somewhere else. Somewhere dry and hot, where humanity first rose from the mud. That's where they belong, him and her. That's where they started, and that's where they should have ended.

Why didn't he offer to take her away? In all likelihood she would have refused but at least he could say that he tried. She would have thrived with him, unrestricted by rules and regulations. She would have been her own master, just as he is. Or was, anyway.

He remembers how she looked when she tortured subordinates. There was a savage, joyful light in her eye. And she was so precise, too, quite careful, always mindful of Grace versus the nerves of the human vessel. She had the skills of a surgeon. There was one angel she had to keep correcting. Heaven has become corrupt over the years, rotting like a Wall Street brokerage from the inside out, but they started out all goody-two-shoes. After all, he doubts God set out to create assholes. Some angels changed but others resisted, remembering the true purpose of Heaven and refusing to give up on all that disgusting humanity and compassion and free will. They didn't want to become cogs in the machine.

Naomi was the one who broke them. And she did it, every time. Most of them settled into complacency after a while but there was one she'd complain about while they were resting in between sessions. She never said his name – confidentiality; we're professionals – but Crowley's pretty sure he knows who it is.

He tastes blood on his tongue, and knows it will be especially sweet to kill Castiel. Consider it a gift, love. The bastard won't trouble you anymore.

Of course, nothing can trouble her anymore. She's gone.

If she had a soul he could find a way to call her up again, breathe life back into her. He'd guard her this time, make sure she was safe, cultivate her until she was healthy and whole again. But angels have no souls. Humans were the first to get that little perk. Like a star burning out, once they are gone there is nothing to fill the void. Emptiness, nothingness… ash where once there was flame.

It is a horrible thought.

And it isn't fucking fair. He sounds a little petulant – Naomi enjoyed pointing that out – but it's true. If anyone got to kill her it should have been him. He should have had the honor. She was his, damnit, his and his alone. He was the one who got to touch her, to kiss that stubbornly set mouth until it became soft and pliant, to make her scream until she lost her voice. Nobody knew her like he did. He knew every inch of her, and every time she got a new vessel he'd learn every inch of that, too.

He did love it whenever she got a new vessel. So many new erogenous spots to find and take advantage of, so many new curves and angles to examine, so much new skin to feel and memorize.

Some things remained the same, of course. She always loved biting; the more savage, the better. Filthy language always turned her on, including insults, and she gave as good as she got. Rough and hard was their game, and it was one neither of them tired of playing. And she was a slave for his cock, no matter what she said.

He highly enjoyed the last vessel she'd had. The auburn hair was nice, and her naturally stern manner fit the physicality of the woman she was occupying quite nicely. And the voice… when she screamed, it was raw and hoarse and absolutely intoxicating.

He's often wondered what she'd be like as a Knight of Hell. She'd give Abaddon a run for her money, certainly, and she would have been more than helpful in taking over the place after Lucifer went bye-bye. For all of her angel crap she had a delightfully twisted mind, a regular Hannibal Lector (which reminded him, he had to talk to Lector, one of his demons, about how the new torture devices were coming along…) and a capable administrator. She rarely got frustrated when breaking or molding minds – it was all a part of the process, she'd say, sipping the alcohol he'd brought that she wasn't supposed to enjoy.

Nobody could down a shot like Naomi.

He recalled a time they'd popped down to a bar in Munich full of vacationing college students. There was a challenge in which forty different shots had to be consumed as fast as possible, the record standing at two minutes and fifty-five seconds.

Naomi finished in forty-five seconds and washed it all down with ten Jagerbombs.

The smile forming on his face slid off once he remembered they wouldn't be able to do it again. He could still picture her the last time they were together, her eyes hooded and her hair undone, bruises marring the pale skin. They'd both been a mess, honestly, thighs sticky and red, her breasts swollen and scratch marks all over. She'd looked… well, he'd never seen Naomi look content or joyful, per se, but she looked satisfied. Whatever came before or after, it seemed that moment was enough for her.

He wished for more of those moments. It wasn't just his very human body talking, either. He was a demon – former demon – but that didn't mean he didn't feel. Unlike the angels (Castiel excepted, but that's another story cough Dean cough), demons weren't told to hide or stifle emotions and free-thinking. They were told to capitalize on them.

He should have capitalized on his. He should have taken what he could while he had the chance. He should have claimed her properly.

Called it twisted and wrong, called it ugly and gnarled, but it existed. His heart is shriveled and neglected but it still beats, and he knows what he felt for her. Knows, when her defenses were down and she was still coming down from her high, what she let herself feel for him.

His fingers curl, turning his hands into tight fists. He can't have her, but he can have revenge. His lips curl into a smile, and a chuckle rumbles in his throat.

After all, isn't that what love is all about?

Last one with this pairing. I swear.

Well… until inspiration strikes again, anyway.