Inspired by two pins, the links to which are posted in this same story on AO3. Sorry, but they were too long to reformat properly for fanfic. I have the same account name, the story name is the same, just on AO3.
Enjoy!
This wasn't exactly how he had anticipated things falling into place. His pert royal ass belonged on the real throne, not this pathetic excuse for one. It was smaller, cheaper, and far less elaborate. Not to mention dirty. He'd had to lay down a handkerchief to keep the blood splatter on the seat from ruining his suit. Another had been ruined cleaning the arms and back enough for him to do more than perch on its edge.
Directly to his left sat the real throne of hell. Taller, broader, engraved mahogany, embroidered silk seat cover over a memory foam cushion, everything a king could ask for. Okay so the memory foam was a new touch, one he hadn't thought to add. After his time. But the new, current king had a penchant for the stuff. Damn him.
The rest of the throne room had also been redecorated. Instead of looking like a true throne room of old, it now resembled a concert hall. The two thrones stood on the stage, the warehouse-like space beyond devoid of people. Well, living people. The stage was the only clean space left, side from a trail of bloody boot prints leading across to the primary throne. Of course the record player sitting behind the thrones was spotless, currently serenading them with AC/DC. Crowley had lost count of how many disloyal and disobedient Demons had been slain. He'd kept track for a while, but after a few weeks and over a fifty thousand dying screams he'd grown bored with it.
Getting the Mark of Cain onto Dean's arm had seemed like a master plan. Get a Winchester to go dark-side, a powerful Demon who'd be loyal to him. It had worked too, for a while. They'd howled at the moon, had their fun. It was shortly after he'd branched out a bit in his efforts to sate the Mark, sending Dean after souls from deals rather than sending rouge Demons into his path, that something had changed. Crowley still wasn't sure what had done it, what had gotten the wheels turning. It had been nearly a year and frankly he'd begun wondering if it even mattered at this point. All he knew was that one day Dean had decided he didn't want to be a loyal second in command to the king of hell. That same day he'd showed up and informed the former king of hell that he looked good in a crown. It was all downhill from there.
The Abadon loyalists were the first to be slaughtered. Then the traditionalists, then Crowley's loyalists who refused to believe he'd voluntarily stepped down. The Mark of Cain had gorged on blood those first few months. Not just Demons either. Any Angel who tried to stand in his way also met their end on the First Blade. These days the feathered nuisances had retreated to heaven, a few lingering on Earth. None dared to interfere.
Whatever he thought of Dean's methods, he had to admit they were effective. It might not be the perfect hell he'd imagined, but it was still reminiscent of a Swiss watch. There were so many Demons he could slaughter the occasional rebellion and still have plenty left. Not that there were many rebellions these days. The few hundred still lying dead in front of them was the first in two months. In the absence of annoying Demons Dean would pop up to Earth, find some dirt bags to gank, then wander back home. There had been a lot of fresh souls who'd shown up thoroughly confused, wondering how hell's king had even found out about their transgressions. It was how more than one squadron of Demons earned a free pass, they spent their time tracking down murderers, rapists, molesters, and general douchebags for their king to gut in their place.
Sam had been an annoyance, obviously. So rather than deal with his brother Dean had tracked down the Angel currently in charge of heaven. Hanna had been reluctant to deal, but he'd made it too good to refuse. All they had to do was get Sam an express pass to heaven, one he'd never escape, and in return he'd send up a few hundred innocent souls that had ended up in hell. The last Crowley had heard Sam was tucked safely in his personal heaven with Jess, and if he even remembered a need to get out he wasn't successful thus far. A few other hunters had objected in his stead. Some were dead. Others had decided that as bad as Dean was now, he wasn't causing undue trouble. If anything he was making their jobs easier, slaughtering monsters if he grew bored with dirtbag humans. The only one of their number who'd challenged Dean and been spared was the child of Castiel's vessel. Since she was technically still a kid Dean had rolled his eyes, sent a few more innocent souls to heaven to pay her way, and slit her throat. Crowley supposed it was the most mercy Dean supplied these days, a quick death. It was only something he'd intentionally given twice. Once to Sam, once to Claire. Sometimes Crowley wondered if he would be afforded the same courtesy if he ever annoyed the new king. Or Castiel for that matter.
Ah Castiel. Crowley's last, failed hope. Somewhere between the bad karaoke and the blood baths as he began his reign over hell Dean had had a revelation. Apparently he really was bisexual. So when Castiel had tried to cure him, reason with him, the Angel hadn't been killed. Sometimes Crowley wondered if death mightn't have been kinder in his case.
When last he'd seen the Angel with broken wings, Castiel had been in one of the many empty torture chambers. They used to be packed, until the Mark got thirsty for blood. Dean had taken to cleaning them out when he got bored. It was why Crowley had noticed someone was in them, why he'd sometimes followed Dean down into them. It had become a daily routine for the king of hell, going down at night to visit his pet Angel. Every time Crowley peeked through the doorway Castiel looked worse and worse hanging from chains in the ceiling, more wounds on his body, more blood pooling at his feet. Initially he'd obviously been constantly toeing the line between life and death. Then Dean had disappeared for a week, coming back with a bottle of grace and Metatron's blood on the First Blade. Crowley had had a front row seat as Dean had opened the bottle, letting Castiel's grace flow back through the Angel's lips. He'd gotten his wings back, as battered as they were, complete with the glow and a blast of power that would have knocked a lesser Demon on their ass. When Crowley had regained his equilibrium it was in time to see the black eyed king of hell plant a rough kiss on bloodied lips.
Crowley hadn't seen Castiel since then. All he knew was that the torture room was empty and more often than not Dean showed up in the mornings with a bounce in his step. Not to mention one of the useful Demons had bragged about perfecting the method of melting down an Angel's blade into a collar that would bind them. As curious as Crowley was, he wasn't so curious he'd risk his skin to see what had become of the Angel.
All things considered Dean seemed pretty happy. Not that this meant anyone was safe, but it helped. At current Crowley was listening to the man hum along to whatever song was currently on behind them, and considering they'd been on a loop of Dean's favorites he still didn't know all their names. The First Blade rested across his legs, his hands occupied with an oversized rainbow slinky. An entire room had been dedicated to the cursed things, though why Crowley hadn't the foggiest.
The most recent slap in the face Crowley had endured rested atop his head. Dean had swaggered in this morning, before the rebellion had made themselves known, still smelling like booze and sex, a paper crown in one hand. Like the kind they gave to kids in restaurants. He'd dropped it onto Crowley's head with a grin and flopped into his throne.
Crowley was no longer so delusional as to believe he'd always made the smartest calls. He'd sold his soul in the first place for an extra few inches of fun for pity's sake. He'd thought he'd finally gotten it right with Dean. So much for that. Worse, he saw no way to fix it. No way to change it. He was thoroughly, inevitably, stuck as second fiddle.
"Bullocks," he murmured softly.
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