Angel eyes · Y/n story by @willowstoner

The air in the motel room was thick with the smell of old coffee, gun oil, and frustration. It was the kind of nowhere place that bled into all the others—peeling wallpaper, a flickering fluorescent light, and two double beds that had seen better decades.

Dean Winchester

So we’re just supposed to sit on our hands while the King of Hell redecorates the ninth circle? He leaned back in the creaky desk chair, the front legs lifting off the floor. Brilliant plan, Bobby. Real inspired.

Bobby Singer

Don’t get smart with me, boy. I’m cross-referencing every lore book I’ve got on binding rituals. Crowley’s got layers. You don’t just walk up and stab him.

Sam Winchester

He’s right, Dean. We need a spell, something that can trap a demon of his caliber. A devil’s trap won’t hold him for long.

Castiel stood by the window, his trench coat stark against the grimy curtains he’d pushed aside. He was staring out at the empty parking lot as if the answers were written in the asphalt cracks.

Castiel

Your rituals are inefficient. My orders are to observe and assist in thwarting the apocalyptic scenario. Crowley is a significant variable. He should be removed.

Dean Winchester

Oh, well, why didn’t you say so? Let me just grab my Crowley-removing stick. He let the chair legs slam down. We’re working on it, Cas.

The door to the room swung open without a knock. A figure stood silhouetted against the harsh afternoon light, then stepped inside, letting the door click shut.

???

Removal is a strong word. I’ve always been partial to ‘eternal incarceration.’