It was a simple feat, really. Get a reaper to break into Purgatory and pull out a monster soul. That had been the plan all along, though, hadn't it? Before Castiel had betrayed him. For a moment he'd thought the angel had seen through his lie, had heard the desperation he'd so carefully hidden behind his words.
Of all the souls in Purgatory, Crowley had wanted only one. Just this one. And Castiel had refused to return it to him.
It had been a mistake. Turning against Lucifer. Trusting the angel. He'd left, forced into hiding, and in that time, they had come. They had come to the town where he'd lived and poisoned the life of the only thing in creation desperate and stupid and lonely enough to love him back. They had gone to Boston before he'd really been ready, they'd forced his hand, and Crowley was glad they were dead, glad he'd been smart enough to tweak the old Croatoan virus, aim it at the monsters, avenge his... well, whatever Bishop had been to him.
Bishop had loved him. Unable to say it, of course, too much vampire pride and not enough of the kind seen at rallies and parades. He'd been hurt, had been desperate.
He'd thought Crowley had left. He hadn't been wrong, but he hadn't been right, either.
He had asked the moose - Sam, his name was Sam - where to find forgiveness, but the truth was that he knew.
He could find it in Boston. He had to start in Boston.
And it was easy, easy to force the reaper to find him the right soul, get it to bring the soul back, force it into lifeless ash. It was a beautiful process, the regeneration. Dark dust swirling in clouds, forming bone and muscle, skin and teeth and tissue, even clothes. The vampire was the embodiment of soul. Life after death. Of course it remembered its death shroud.
Bishop gasped to life, coughing and scrambling onto his stomach to hack up blood and ash. He finally turned black eyes up to the demon, finally blinked in recognition. "Crowley?"
"Hello, darling."
---
He had an apartment. He explained about the virus, the plague, the blood. He offered himself up. Demon blood, even changing demon blood, was strong. Would bring the vampire back to fighting shape. They could get out of the city, find a place untouched by the virus, start over.
It was a chance, Crowley explained. A chance to begin anew.
"You're different," Bishop noticed. He was sprawled out on the bed, clad only in boxers, too inviting to pass up for long.
"In a good way, I hope."
The vampire smiled. "I like the new you."
"Those boys," the demon explained. "The ones I had to go see before I left -"
"The first time."
"Yes. Before I left the first time. The did it. They found a cure."
Bishop sat up. "A cure for what?"
"For demons. They can make me human."
"Do you want that?"
"Yes."
"Why would you want that? You never wanted that before."
Crowley crossed the room and sat down beside the other man. "Because I was sick. But now I'm better. I'm myself again. They already started, and if I can get them to finish," he reached out and took the vampire's hands in his own. "We can be together the way you always wanted."
Bishop shook his head. "No. Not like I always wanted." He pulled his hands away and scooted back. "Why did you bring me back, Crowley?"
"Because you loved me. And now I have it in me to love you back. I brought you back so we can be together."
"But you'll be human."
"Hopefully."
"So, you brought me back to leave me again."
"What are you talking about?"
"Humans die, Fergus." The demon flinched at the name, shocked. "You wanted automatic, unconditional love so you brought me back to a world that hates me, where I'm going to starve until we can get out of the city, and in - oh, how old is that guy? 40? 50? - in thirty years you'll be dead and I'll be alone again." He slid off the bed and paced the floor. "I don't know what those boys did to you, but it didn't fix you. It didn't make you more human. You're still a demon, Crowley. Just as selfish as the rest." He left the room, left the apartment, still in his boxers, and let the front door slam behind him. It seemed final.
In all honesty, he hadn't considered that. Hadn't even thought. Hadn't thought about what the vampire might want, or need, too focused on the knowledge that there had, at one time, been something in the universe willing to love him as he was.
Maybe he was reverting. Maybe it was wearing off. Maybe he'd be doomed to an eternity as this ugly loveless thing, hated and rejected by monsters and human alike, despised even by his own kind.
Or maybe he could make a deal. King of the Crossroads. Human blood meant a human life, and humans, it had been proven through the centuries, were easy to twist and taint, easy to turn.
If the demon and the vampire couldn't be together, and the human and the vampire couldn't be together, then maybe the vampire and the vampire could be together. A twisted bloodline of love and hate, abandonment and reunions.
