Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters.

A/N: This is my first Supernatural fanfiction, so please bear with me.

Also please review! I want to know if I should continue or not. Let me know, lovelies.

Chapter One

As Crowley walked down the street, he stared at the cracked pavement. He finally escaped from those moronic pretty boys, but now his thoughts were left to roam. He still wasn't sure what really happened at that rundown church, but he knew it was going to be a pain in his ass. He put his hands in his pockets and took a left down a dark alley. He wasn't really sure where he was going for the night. He wasn't even sure if he was still king. How long did the Winchesters have him as their little bitch? Hopefully not too long, and hopefully Abaddon didn't acquire too much of the throne in the meantime. The thought sickened him. Bloody Abaddon.. What a little cunt. Who does she think she is trying to steal his title? He can take it back with time, but honestly he doesn't even want to put up the fight. Does he even really want to be king anymore? Would he rather be the King of Hell than dead?

Crowley checked his coat pockets and was incredibly thankful he felt the leather wallet in his hand. He figured he should lie low for a few days to keep the boys and Abaddon off his trail while he figured a plan. Unluckily, however, he couldn't use his cards and he was a bit low on cash. It seemed as if this mini-vacation wasn't going to be so lavish.

After he walked a few blocks he came across a small hotel with red neon lights on the sign, half of which were blown out or broken. Unfortunately, it was the only place where he could lay his head that night. There was a bell that rang as he walked through the smudged, glass door and static came from a small, boxy television set.

"I'll be with ya in just a second," someone groaned from the room behind the counter in a voice laced with apathy.

Crowley wasn't known for being patient and typically would've raised a bit of hell for even being spoke to that way, but tonight he wasn't feeling particularly aggressive and just wanted a place to rest, so he kept quiet and picked up a newspaper from the stained counter. His eyes widened as he read the date on the front page.

"Fucking hell... How did those bloody twats keep me locked away for three months?" He said hardly over a whisper but there was clearly rage pouring out with his words. Just as he was beginning to get frustrated with his waiting, a man came out from the room and stationed himself behind the counter. Crowley grimaced at the man's appearance and felt a bit offended that someone could find this stature as acceptable. There was a clear contrast between them as Crowley, wearing his perfectly tailored black Armani suit and custom Italian leather shoes, silently judged the man in the navy colored shirt speckled with stains and holes.

"What can I do for ya?" The man asked from behind a thick mustache as Crowley narrowed his eyes.

"Perhaps a room. Maybe with a bar and little chocolates on the pillows? That would be quite lovely," he said sarcastically as he raised an eyebrow and looked at the peeling yellow wallpaper.

"Well you ain't gonna get that here. But I can get ya a room with a bed and a tv," he coughed into a handkerchief he pulled out of the pocket of his faded denim jeans and then continued, "the cash register is broke right now so I can't take your cash up front. So you're gonna have to pay when ya leave. And I think it'd be in your best interest to do so and not skip out on what ya owe me." The man's eyes moved over to a rifle mounted on the wall and Crowley could barely suppress his laughter. He nodded his head and the man tossed him a key with a tag dangling from it that was marked with a number four.

When he walked through the door to the small room, Crowley was displeased to say the least. The room smelled of must and was very poorly lit. He sighed and snapped his fingers. A bottle of single malt scotch and a crystal glass appeared on the rickety kitchen table. The room was obviously never going to have a feature in Good Housekeeping, and he didn't have to endure his time there sober. He pulled out the metal chair with a screech and sat down. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and closed his eyes as he savored the leathery, oaky taste. He quickly finished his glass and poured another. He stood up, glass in hand, and walked over to the television. He turned the knob and positioned himself at the foot of the bed.

There was an infomercial for a blanket with sleeves, called a Snuggie, and Crowley chuckled as he said, "six more years, friend. Relish in your fortune while you can." It was in that moment that Crowley realized he may have made that specific deal, but who would know if he'd acquire that soul? Abaddon could be sitting at his throne while he slouched on the end of a bed in a cheap motel.

Crowley rolled off the bed with a disheveled appearance. He passed out the night before after finishing his second bottle of scotch. As a demon, he didn't necessarily require sleep, but after a night of drinking he enjoyed a pleasant slumber. He stumbled to the bathroom as he rubbed his eyes. The sink squeaked in protest when he turned the knob and the first bit of water to pour from the faucet was orange with rust. Crowley cupped his hands and splashed the cold water onto his face, then looked up at the mirror. He hadn't seen his reflection the whole time he had been with the Winchesters. His beard was scraggly, but he quite preferred the facial hair. He decided on a trim rather than a shave then looked into his own eyes through the reflection. He appeared tired and worn. His eyes were hazy and faded compared to the typical piercing walnut color.

He thought back to the night of attempted purification with Sam. Did he actually deserve to be loved like he had said? He'd done so many despicable things with no traces of remorse until now, and what about his earlier demonic days? He was ignorant and chaotic and had slaughtered groups of men, women, and children just for his own amusement. At least in his recent escapades he was doing what was necessary to gain his title, but before it was as if he was born to commit the worst of sins. Like he had said, where would he even start to look for forgiveness? All the things he had done seemed so definite and unable to be pardoned. Crowley broke his gaze with the reflection, skipped over the crystal glass, and decided to take a few long gulps straight from the bottle.