This is supposed to happen in Season 15, in what I guess would be a good way of getting our favorite demon back.
Crowley's Top Ten
Chapter 1: Queen of Rain
In that big house there are fifty beds
and one of them leads to your soul.
It's a bed of fear, a bed of threats,
regrets and sheets so cold.
The moment Crowley woke up he knew there was something wrong.
His last memory was the – quite expected – painful fading consciousness caused by killing himself in front of Lucifer to help the Winchesters.
The pain had been just physical, with no regrets or hesitation. He had done something with no ulterior motives for the first time in his entire life, and he was resigned – no, he was thrilled – to die for the right thing.
(Obviously, going in a blaze of glory and having a glimpse of Lucifer's confused face was nice, too.)
But, no matter how special the occasion it had been, he was not supposed to wake up.
The last thing Crowley could imagine, then, was that he would open his eyes to some suburban ceiling in a darkened room.
He palmed the bed under him, inspecting the mediocre – not silk or satin, even if comfortable – bed linen and felt the pillow under his head.
He stayed still, purposely not breathing, making sure to discern any noises that could give him a hint of where he was and which menaces were lurking in the shadows.
There was just silence.
Something must be waiting to plunge at him.
Silence.
He gulped.
He heard the noises of his body, what was disconcerting.
He scowled.
It was always like this. You are ten steps ahead of your enemies, but the unexpected comes on you and the improbable and the unpredictable break even the most carefully crafted plans.
The silence persisted and got to his nerves.
Bollocks.
He turned his head to one side and the other, not able to see much.
Was it night? That would explain the hints of silver appearing through what seemed heavy curtains…
Or was he in some kind of dungeon?
Crowley decided to move. It would force whatever was watching him to show itself.
He sat on the bed.
Even with the room so darkened, his good vision permitted him to detect some patterns on the sheets.
Were they sigils? Would he be trapped in that bed?
There was a shadow by his right, and he extended an arm.
His hand found a bedside lamp, which he promptly turned on.
The powers of the dim light revealed the mysterious inscriptions.
Paris, Rome, Berlin.
Crowley rolled his eyes. Some cheap sheets with foolishly pretentious writings.
Feeling more confident, he threw his legs off the bed and got up.
He looked down at himself to find out what he was wearing: his black shirt (not buttoned as straight as he would like), his silk black shorts and an outrageous pair of white cotton socks.
Crowley stepped on the woody floor, testing its resistance under his weight and prepared to detect any abnormality.
Nothing.
He advanced to some racks visible at the furthest wall.
There was something hanging there.
He suspected the truth about his predicament could be found in those racks.
He wondered what someone could have put there.
He had been a demon – King of the Crossroads, then the King of Hell, to be exact – and spent millennia, by the underworld's standard, torturing bodies and souls; there was not much that could impress him, and still someone had tried.
Crowley stood closer to the dark forms and stretched his arm to touch them.
His fingers found the textures of clothes.
His clothes – pants, tie and overcoat.
In a mix of relief and confusion, he turned around to see what else there was in the room.
A closed window behind – now he had proof of it – heavy curtains. When moved, they showed it was night in a calm street with light poles.
A closed door.
The bed where he had been.
Some shelves with books called his attention.
A quick inspection showed the titles were most of Literature.
Crowley rose an arm and opened his hand.
The book he chose moved slightly in the shelf, but didn't go to his palm as he had wished.
So, he still had powers, but they were not fully operational.
Interesting.
He picked the book the traditional way and opened it. Maybe a Divine Comedy cover was just disguising the real nature of this place.
He moved closer to the source of light and found out the books had text.
The expected text – the English translation of Dante's verses.
No mysterious symbols, no spells, no ancient tongues.
Crowley closed the book and threw a glare at the room.
It was all so trivial it was unnerving.
Where was the alternate apocalyptical universe?
Where were Moose and Squirrel?
Where was Feathers?
Had the Father of All Lies somehow won, and now was lurking in the shadows, enjoying Crowley's confusion?
What did this comfortable room, with its books and its silence, mean?
The sound of a car in the distance surprised him.
It was not an Impala.
Not the Impala, for sure.
And it was just passing by. It had nothing to do with him or his predicament.
Crowley frowned at the idea that occurred to him.
What if he was in some kind of personal Heaven?
What if, no matter how his adventure ended, whoever was in charge decided he deserved a reward for his self-sacrifice, and it came in form of an afterlife of plain decoration, some classic books, warm white socks and…
Solitude?
A sudden grip of fear made him let go of the book, support himself on the shelves and reached for the bed to sit again.
It made sense.
His early memories were of hungriness, poverty and despair, with an early life of nightmares and beatings, constant pain and humiliation. When he called a crossroads demon to make the deal, he was just a frail and tormented human who asked for the only thing he associated with power – a bigger penis.
And things seemed to fall into place, for some time: he was confident and could do whatever he wanted. People were impressed. The same ones who mocked him for being just an average man now had to admit he had somehow changed.
Mischief, lies, low blows and backstabbing became his weapons, not means for others to attack and hurt him.
Each success gave him a new boost. He even lied and pretended to be bearable company for a little while, in order to guarantee a wealthy marriage and not even have to make much effort or use the penis he had gained in the deal for reasons not directly related to his own immediate satisfaction.
He soon became overly cruel and would beat anyone who didn't do what he wanted.
Just because he could.
Of course, he didn't know then how the evil deeds weighted in the human soul. His drinking habit seemed just one more thing that gave him pleasure, and he pretended it had nothing to do with that little voice who appeared now and then to speak some nonsense about solitude.
That voice scared him, and he couldn't be scared. The time for fear was over. He would never recoil again. He would never be hurt again.
Looking at what happened, it was clear Fergus McLeod died way before his ten years were due: no one who had known him when he was young – that cute child eager to please or the teen who sought affection desperately – could think it was the same person.
He died physically in a drunk stupor, alone in a dark alley.
He didn't even care when the Hellhounds came for him.
At least something came for him.
The demon who tortured Fergus in the racks had the utter pleasure of explaining how dumb he had been, losing his humanity and becoming too numb to understand where his choices leaded him.
So, the job of that demon had been making him aware of what he had missed.
His body was restored, for starters.
He felt healthy and strong for the first time in his entire existence. There was no pain or weakness. He was vibrant with energy.
Then he was shown his family – his mother, his son, his wife – as the caring and well-succeed people they could have been if had even a bit of sympathy from him.
Without his long suffered physical and emotional pains, his mind was clear. The intelligence that had appeared through his life just as flashes was finally free to develop itself. He was able to evaluate things under the light of rationality and everything made sense: the importance of being loving and loyal, the pleasures of real intimacy and trust, the possibilities of a life lived in generosity and companionship, with no fear of being betrayed at any moment.
He understood every misled action he had ever taken was motivated by fear. Fear of being alone, fear of being ridiculed, fear of being abandoned.
And suddenly he was reminded that those good things he had just comprehended were not real.
That the world was not fair.
That God had abandoned everyone.
That some people never even had a chance.
People like him – born to a life of poverty, abuse and ignorance.
The demon started bringing everything on again.
Fergus felt each disease and scar came to life.
The rotten liver.
The intestines and anus, never quite healed from hungriness, attacks and abusers since he was a child.
The everlasting pain on the rib broken in a fight for food.
The dislocated shoulder that was treated by a drunk doctor and ended up healing in the wrong place.
The rash on his penis for DSTs.
The always pained and full-of-something-disgusting-and-not-diagnosed lungs.
And then the demon brought back his worst emotional memories.
Of every time he saw and suffered injustices and could not do anything about it.
Of every person who had hurt him for petty reasons.
Of every time he had hated and beaten someone for any reason.
And as a bonus, he felt the emotional consequences of all that in the ones he attacked – the hatred, the despair, the frustration, the misery filling their souls because of him.
And that was when the demon started breaking him.
Yes – he had his mind freed and his body restored, and then his mind preserved and his body returned, just for them to be broken in a new way.
He saw the logic in it. He needed to taste something good in order to really understand that there was no justice in the world, and that the only rule which never failed was that when you have no power you'll be stepped on, sooner or later.
At some point he gave up being.
There was nothing left for him.
When he was off the rack to torture someone else, he was free of any empathy or goal. He did what was necessary to rip out yells and begging, but it didn't really matter to him.
Fate put him in the position of a crossroads demon, and a flame was ignited inside him.
If something like happiness existed, it was what he felt when he could be a business minded demon, and soon he was choosing a name – Crowley – and was shining as an accomplished dealer – cunning, observing, convincing, open minded and lacking any pity for humans who sold their souls for whatever they thought was worth it.
(He had done it and knew it was stupid. No one deserved forgiveness for such a choice.)
Crowley had powers to squish anyone who came into his path, but he didn't care enough to go in a rampage or get vengeance. He had immense pleasure in sealing deals, he had pleasure in the monetary gains and security they brought; he had some satisfaction in having the ability to partake anonymously in orgies; he even enjoyed to watch the Hellhounds doing their job.
Not worrying about a thing was the most liberating thing he could have, and he enjoyed that existence for a while – until he accepted the position as King and the Winchesters and Castiel came along to show him things were not so simple.
Crowley blinked at the darkened room.
His throat went dry.
His breathing accelerated in a surge of panic.
Yes, that's it.
He would stay there, locked away, in eternal suspension, never being hurt again, and never having the opportunity to hurt anyone.
He was so toxic to the world and to himself that the possibility of a personal Heaven for him was in solitude.
He closed his eyes.
It seemed the logic thing to happen.
Wasn't it tragic that he didn't deal well with loneliness? That he liked to chat and joke and interact? That he had urges of social relations quite often?
Was it his personal Hell, too?
The idea was horrifying.
He made an effort to calm down.
His powers would surely be back soon. He must be tired, for some reason. And, when he was totally restored, he would teleport out of his nightmare.
But to where?
What if the street outside was an illusion, and there was a void outside those walls?
What if he was in The Empty?
What if The Empty was not empty, but a prison?
What if he should have been sleeping in The Empty, but he woke up to what some out-worldly mind recognized as a reward, and not the torture it would be to him?
He didn't even know how the parade in the alternate universe ended.
What if there was no Winchesters, anymore?
What if Lucifer was the new King of Hell?
What if Lucifer was the new King of Everything?
Maybe Lucifer had already destroyed everything and this place was the last resort for creatures like Crowley.
Maybe there was no place for him to go.
Maybe it was a trap and he was locked into his own mind.
Maybe there was nothing he could do.
He breathed deeply, hands on his face. He had to calm down.
If there was one thing he had learned from Moose and Squirrel is that you never, ever give up.
He could be reading the situation wrong.
He lowered his hands and looked around.
There was no Craig, here. Any illusion meant to keep him forever would have it. It was basic information on him.
Thus, there must be another explanation for this conjuncture.
His near panic attack must be related to that damn human blood in his veins. It surely had left traces of feelings. Those were making him ridiculously nervous and irrational.
A click reached his overactive senses and Crowley got up more quickly than his dignity should permit – even if he guessed his dignity had already left, in fact, once his first attitude at waking up was not getting off the white socks.
The fact he reached out for an Italian Renascence book to defend himself from an unknown danger was a bonus for the ridiculousness of the moment.
The click had been the door of the room opening.
A female form appeared and stopped at the said door.
Preparing for the revelation, Crowley straightened his shoulders and made his sassiest pose – squinting, chin high, head a bit to the side.
(One more proof that dignity has left him – no long coat to complete the look stuffing his hands and looking nonchalantly menacing.)
The woman turned on the main lights.
She was clad in pajamas.
She mouthed Sorry when he flinched.
His senses were in overdrive again, seizing the opportunity to study the room but not divert his gaze time enough for that… creature to attack him by surprise.
She observed him for some time, as if leaving him to locate himself.
'Hi', she finally said, tentatively, 'I'm glad you're up'.
'Not for you, darling'.
'What?'
'What?'
She raised her brows.
Crowley blinked, confused. He could have been charming and give whoever – or whatever – he was facing the classic false sense of security. However, the rudeness came out of him as a reflex.
Well, what was said was said. Doubting himself would just make everything worse.
So, he just pretended nothing had happened and faced her with that same suspicious expression again.
The woman pursed her lips.
Was she uncomfortable?
Maybe his 'keeper' was a human, after all.
Maybe she was the kind who recoiled when someone made a sexual joke, and from now on he had gained the upper hand.
Or maybe she was the kind who turned cold, and again he would have the advantage, once calling her on her coldness would prove his argument.
Or maybe she had powers and would punish him as soon as she decided the most perverse way.
Or maybe…
'That was juvenile'.
The woman stated it calmly, as if informing him.
It should sound eerie and menacing.
But no. It had been…
Soothing.
There was no judgement.
That was unexpected.
And unexpected triggered Crowley's standard response.
He walked forward with a frown, 'I don't know who you're working for, but every second you keep me in this suburban room will turn into hours of me slicing you open', he closed the gap between them, 'I can see you're a minion being used to keep me in this dirt hole, but time passes differently in Hell, and I warn you that EVERY HOUR WILL FEEL LIKE A DECADE WHEN I START CUTTING OFF YOUR LIMBS'.
He finished as loud as he could and included grinding teeth and fiery eyes.
(The complete King of Hell package.)
The woman tilted her head, 'Why are you yelling?'
He deflated.
'I have no idea what you're talking about, and yelling doesn't help your case, whatever it is', she shrugged, 'It just makes you sound like a lunatic, in fact'.
Crowley recovered, adjusting his not well buttoned black shirt, and bit the inside of his cheek, 'This is not a fair conversation'.
'You're right', was the immediate answer, 'I owe you an explanation'.
He pouted as if slightly offended by the fact she had not realized that earlier.
She noticed and her face contorted.
He realized she was trying not to smile.
He wondered what was so funny.
'You appeared at my doorstep last night', the woman cleared her throat, 'You were barely conscious, seemed scared and was speaking in a strange language, so I guessed you were a refugee or immigrant in hiding'.
She paused for a moment, as if waiting for him to say something.
He nodded slowly, indicating he was following her narrative but would not speak.
'I called a friend who is a nurse and she helped me to carry you inside and clean you up'.
It sounded trivial enough.
But she could be making everything up.
If she had been chosen by Lucifer, she had to master the art of lying.
Crowley decided to keep his guard up for the time being.
So, he just squinted.
'I was going to exit the room for her to clean you up, because she is the professional, but she insisted I helped her, and… well, you have nothing to be ashamed about, and I had to make sure you were all right', she opened her arms, 'I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable'.
He still didn't answer.
'My friend said you just had to rest, and we left you in my guest room. You slept the whole day'.
She looked around as if pondering on what else to say.
He remained still.
'My name is Sara', she added, 'We're in Wyoming', she thought a bit more, then shrugged, 'And I hope you're feeling well. I was getting worried'.
Now she was finished.
He knew because she made a gesture with her hands indicating it.
And she was the one waiting, hands joined in front of her.
Still, he didn't speak.
Crowley was not sure what to do or say. He still didn't feel safe enough to reveal anything.
He knew he was just moving his jaw as a munching cow, but that was what he managed at that point.
'Well, you don't have to tell me anything – not even your name', she resumed when he didn't give her any hint that the situation would change any soon, 'You're not a prisoner', she showed the door, then the racks, 'Your clothes are there. You can pick them and go, if that's what you want', she let her arms fall at her sides, 'You don't own me anything'.
It was impossible for him not to show at least a glimpse of surprise.
If her story was true, she had found a stranger at her doorstep and done everything in her reach to help him.
She even refrained from calling the Police – the sensible thing to do when strangers speaking in tongues appear in front of your house – because it occurred to her that making his apparition public could make things worse to him.
If someone had planned this situation, they seemed to know very well his human weaknesses.
Every word the… woman in front of him said echoed in his need to feel cared for: she had done everything for him, not demanding information and leaving him free to choose if he wanted to stay or not, no strings attached.
The fact she waited patiently for his answer didn't help Crowley, once giving him time to think and decide how to proceed was something a real enemy would never do.
In fact, he was not used to be given time and space.
He didn't know what to do of it.
No explanations or favors demanded?
How is this supposed to even work?
He straightened himself, adjusting his shirt again.
She licked her lips, adopting a receptive stance, and he noticed it.
Her attitude shifted something inside him, and Crowley felt himself relax.
He wished he could erase his previous harsh attitude.
He felt his eyes soften and saw hers answering spontaneously.
That was unexpected.
And unexpected brought unexpected, this time.
'Fergus', he said, 'The name is Fergus'.