Havana, Cuba
A disgruntled Crowley sat at a café in downtown Havana, drinking rum from a box. This whole situation was outrageous. Once he'd ruled Hell, now he sat alone at an abandoned café, not a single minion left to perform the day to day menial tasks. He was even forced to roll his own cigars!
He'd nobly sacrificed his demons and tortured souls to fight the darkness. He'd even given that feathered ass Castiel all the souls under contract in order to help conquer the biggest threat the earth had ever faced. Naturally he assumed that once the crisis was over, he'd have plenty of time to replenish hell.
Crowley relished the challenge of making deals, luring innocent people to damnation, once again filling the bowels of hell with the sweet sound of screams from the damned. But then that blasted virus had struck, killing everyone on the planet.
How was he to tempt people with fame and fortune during a massive epidemic? Who can think of carnal pursuits when millions died every day? Even he, Master of The Crossroads, was unable to close a single deal. Even worse, the entire population prayed for forgiveness, repented their sins and cleansed their souls.
As a result, the reapers had whisked the newly deceased to heaven en masse leaving the erstwhile King of Hell to reign over an empty pit. His attempts at reviving the dead had failed miserably. Apparently, the winged bastards had somehow locked the souls away, far beyond Hell's reach. Even worse, he couldn't even blame the Winchesters for this calamity.
Crowley pictured the Winchesters frolicking together in whatever ghastly heaven they'd ended up in. Grimacing at the thought, he chugged down another box of rum. He looked down at his once impeccably tailored suit. Bad enough being the last demon on earth, there was no need to look shabby. Time to go to Savile Row and get another suit before he was wearing rags. Luckily he'd retained his tailoring skills.
Crowley tossed the box of rum to the ground and vanished.