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Fergus Unfettered
By : FemmeBono
Category: Supernatural > Het - Male/Female
Views: 2329 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or it's characters, nor am I making money from this. - Chapter List
A/N: For the record, let's pretend season 10 has never happened. Okay thanks. ;)
Cht 3
The trick was finding something of his or something that had been his, Lizbeth told herself. There were no remains to be found. Lizbeth was fortunate in finding out from Garth that the former king of the crossroads demons, now King of Hell, was named Crowley, and that his former name was Fergus Roderick McLeod. Best to go straight to the top, she figured. It was what James Pendleton would do.
A lengthy trip to Scotland led her to Inverness, where any surviving documents were kept for the entire region in an ancient church rectory and library. She scoured documents—land grants and titles, clergy records, birth records—anything she could get her hands on to lead back to her demon. His bloodline seemed to die out shortly after the death of his son Gavin. That was an avenue she could take if necessary, since his DNA would be contained in Gavin's remains. However, she preferred something of his. No mistakes, she told herself, no half measures. She owed it to her father.
Days into her research, Lizbeth had a breakthrough. In 1875 a wealthy coal merchant by the name of Tom Walker Crawley paid to disinter the remains of Fergus McLeod. He claimed a tenuous family connection and with what looked like a small bribe, secured the remains and had them shipped to a location in Greece, which was illegible. Strange, she thought, that after such perfect penmanship everywhere else on the page, his writing suddenly got sloppy with inkblots. But still Lizbeth stared at the signature. One thing that is completely unique for everyone. She had him.
Crowley went about his business, unaware of what was about to befall him. He rose in the morning, shaved, now that he had gotten over the beard fiasco, and poured himself a scotch. He sent whichever whore he had slept with on her way, with a sharp smack to the bottom and a smirk at the bright pink handprint. Then he dressed, flicking a piece of lint from his suit jacket, plucking a hair from his tie before adjusting the perfect Windsor knot merely for form. Second glass of scotch, and a stroll down to the throne room. He sat, transfixed with boredom, as his lackeys prattled on about deals and projections for souls in the next quarter. He stayed awake by picturing himself flaying them and drizzling wax onto their entrails. Whatever worked. He was an hour and half into his work, his fourth glass of scotch, and a dizzying explanation of why last quarter's returns on souls were down and what was being done to counter this trend.
Suddenly, he felt a sharp tug in his brain, followed by a hollow scratching as though there were a fingernail in there pulling away at him. Winchesters? He wondered, alarmed. Since when did they have the audacity? They hadn't in years tried to summon him. How could they? But sure enough, even as he scrambled to maintain his grip on his physical location, the summoning snatched him straight away and landed him smack in the middle of a sketchy but very effective devil's trap. He rolled his eyes and turned, a terse comment dying on his lips when he realized that not only was it not the Winchesters, but it did not appear to be any hunter he recognized at all. It was in fact, a she, and very much so as he eyed her up and down appreciatively.
"Well, hello darling," he smiled ingenuously, gesturing with the glass he was still clutching. "And to what do I owe the dubious pleasure?"
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