Supernatural Imagines & Preferences ^Completed^

Colorful Splotches (Crowley×Reader)

   The colors cascaded the canvas as the brush moved back and forth. The off-white canvas was soon turning into a horror scene of red and browns, depicting a rather gruesome murder. You didn't know why you painted these things, but something was compelling you to. Whenever you started painting, you got an ardent feeling of passion, urging you to continue. Some of the scenes would get rather gruesome, such as this one. Sometimes they were beautiful fields with a person sitting quietly at the side of the canvas, his face popping up in your head with vast detail. 

   Shortly after you started developing this beautiful, yet odd, pictures in your mind, a couple of men appeared at your front door. They claimed that they knew how to help you, but you didn't want help. You didn't need help. You loved these images, whether they were terribly disgusting or utterly beautiful. You violently shook your head, wanting to keep these thoughts forever. 

   "You're a prophet," the shorter one said bluntly as you stared at him in disbelief. You stuttered, trying to find words to say.

   "I-I can't be a pro-prophet. I'm...not even religious," you said as you leaned against the door frame trying to pull yourself together. The tall one with kind eyes sighed and gave you a sad smile.

   "You don't have to be in order to be a prophet," he said matter-of-factly as you slowly nodded your head. "You have to come with us. I know, quite sudden, but it's for your safety." You nodded again, letting all of the information soak into your brain. Prophet. Safety. Why did you need safety? You went back to your desk, picking up all of your art supplies and shoving it in a backpack you had under it. 

   "Let me, uh, let me go get some clothes," you said walking down the hall. "You can come i-in, by the way." You heard shuffling of feet and your front door close softly. You folded shirts and pants as you tried to think of wear your duffel bag was. You walked over to your closet, reaching up onto the high shelf and feel its vinyl fabric. You pulled it down, shoving all of the neatly folded clothes in the bag, zipping it shut, and walking out to meet the men who were exploring your small apartment. They saw you and smiled. 

   "I'm Sam, by the way. Sorry I didn't tell you that when I first got here," said the tall one with long hair. You nodded and smiled at him a little. 

   "(Y/N)." The other man groaned and you saw him leaning against the front door with an unamused look on his face. 

   "Can we just go? Cas is waiting for us back at the Bunker." His voice was bitter and cold, leading you to already be scared of him. You crawled into the backseat of the car, shivering at the feeling of the cold, leather seat that was sitting underneath of you. The car was revved up and you watched as you drove out of your neighborhood and into grasslands. Sam was making small talk and telling you that 'we'll be at the Bunker in a little under an hour.' You nodded your head but ignored him as you stared out the window. He eventually stopped and grew quiet and the silence and low rumble of the car lulled you to sleep. 

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   "Dean, she's a prophet. If we don't let her stay with us, something bad is going to happen to her," Sam yelled as you jolted awake. The harshness of his voice made you uneasy as soon as you woke up and heard it, causing you to shrink further against the seat. Sam noticed your consciousness, also noticing your scared expression. He spoke in a much quieter voice. "The angels or demons could get her." Before you could say anything, the man who was driving, presumably Dean, interrupted you. 

   "Yes, those exist, too. You'll learn everything. Sam and I will, uh, will teach ya," he said as he made a sharp right into an illuminated garage. The car shut off and Dean got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Sam looked back at you with a sad smile and waited until you were about to get out to get out as well. 

   "Don't mind him. He'll warm up to you," he said as he got yours and his bag out of the trunk, allowing you to grab your art supplies. He led you to your room, setting down your things and telling you to get some sleep. But you couldn't. There was an image clouding your brain; an image of a man, his back facing towards you, sitting in a library sipping on some whiskey. You quickly unzipped the backpack, dumping its contents onto the bed in front of you. You grabbed a canvas, a brush, and some paint, getting to work. You painted until you heard voices outside your room, sounding far, yet so close. The door creaked as you opened it, making you shy away in fear of someone hearing you. You peeked around the corner when you got to the end of the hallway to see exactly the same image you had been painting. 

   "You Winchesters got to her before I could. The least you could do is let me see her." The man sitting in the chair had a deep, gravely voice and you hear a hint of an English accent. Dean took notice to you and rolled his eyes, gesturing towards you. 

   "If you want to meet her so bad, why don't you turn around," he said, his voice filled with sarcasm and exasperation. The man turned around and you stepped back a bit, feeling spooked. That was the man you'd been seeing in your head, the man you had been painting. He noticed your uneasiness and made his way towards you slowly. 

   "I'm not gonna hurt you, darling. The name's Crowley," he said as he held his hand out for you to take. You gingerly took his hand a softly shook it, easing up a bit.