I'm not entirely sure where my mind was at the weekend, but if the drabbles I wrote were anything to go by, I would say there should have been a three mile exclusion zone around it for health and safety purposes.
Needless to say that my two lovely boys didn't do too well out of it :)
See for yourself ...
Disclaimer: Don't own, wish I did, blah blah
KING OF HELL
I bring you a 200-word excusion into the wit and wisdom of everyone's favourite arch-demon, scheming liar, double-crossing snake and all round smart-arse.
Vague spoilers for 6.22 - 'The Man Who Knew Too Much'.
Rating: T for some disturbing imagery
Word Count: 200
Crowley wiped his bloodstained hands, strolling away from the eviscerated cadaver on the gurney, smoothing his hair as he went.
Necromancy was such an under-appreciated art; whoever would have thought he could track down that pain-in-the-arse angel by studying some dead bloke's liver?
Most demons didn't understand it's elegant subtlety, the fine nuances of it's skilful application; but then he wasn't most demons.
That's why he was King of Hell and those other hell-spawn further down the chain were just mindless cretins who weren't fit to lick his last customer's entrails off his finely cut Italian shoes.
It was good to be the King.
Talking of mindless cretins; no doubt when the angel turned up, that pair of emotional trainwrecks, the Winchesters, wouldn't be far behind him.
Oh, that would be exquisite; when he finally got that sodding pair where he wanted them - in chains - he would study their livers.
Heck, if he was careful enough, he could give the smug bastards the opportunity to study their own livers …
or each others.
That'd be 'offally' entertaining. Now that was the key to job satisfaction; being able to have a laugh.
Oh yes, it was good to be the king.
Hell is many things, but above all it is an assault on the senses.
Rating: T for some disturbing Imagery
Word Count: 100
The nauseating odour of sulphur and ammonia, carried on a pall of choking black smoke, stifling and suffocating him.
The coppery flavour of blood mingling with salty tears, clogging his parched, burning throat.
The desolate keening of his tortured cries set against a dissonant knell of rattling chains.
The harrowing sight of Alastair's creativity; of his torn, ruined flesh hanging off the bloodied lattice of ivory-pale ribs.
The agony of torture anaesthetised by Sam's comforting touch as he gently wakes his sobbing brother from his nightmare.
Both brothers instinctively knew the soothing hug would never be discussed. Ever.
That was the sixth sense.