SuperWhoLock

Chapter 1 - Mondays are Hell

If there was one thing that was human about Crowley, it was his hatred of Mondays.

The demon had never liked them, even when he was actually human. But now, as the self-proclaimed ruler of Hell, he had grown to dread them as a man might dread a root canal.

In Hell, Monday was the choice day of the week when all of last week's work was submitted. From the pile of deals to be officiated, to the whispering of insurrection, to the reports of activity of a Winchester nature, there was always an obscene amount of work waiting for him on his desk, bright and early Monday morning.

Simply put, there was far too much that needed to be done, and there was only one person on the face of the planet that he trusted to do it: himself.

The King of Hell sighed and sat back in his chair, wearily eyeing aforementioned pile of deals. It was true the pile was rather high, but he really ought to stop fooling himself; the pile OUGHT to be a lot higher. It was part of the reason he was so stressed. When he had solely been in the crossroads business, he knew for a fact that they had brought in at least twice the number weekly.

The truth was that Hell was losing customers, and there wasn't much Crowley could do it about it.

Humanity had a talent for being thick in the head, but even they could only ignore so much. The earthquakes, illness, and floods of the Apocalypse had started getting them antsy, especially with the laughably inaccurate Mayan prophecy due date approaching. But ever since a certain trench-coated 'God' had decided to come out publicly and proceed to go on a religious-themed killing spree, the populous had suddenly decided to tread more lightly in favor of morality to appease 'their Lord'. They also seemed to value their souls a bit more, in light that they might not live the ten years to enjoy anything they would have sold it for.

Crowley reached for the decanter of Craig and glass at the edge of his desk. The amount of drink left was disturbingly low, he noticed.

If there was one thing that Leviathan had known, it was that he needed to keep a low profile to stay successful. Well, a low profile in the sense that he kept his darker side out of the news. In fact, he had even, to an extent, kept quite a bit of the supernatural out of the people's line of sight too… It was a shame that Dick proved to be such a dick. Crowley would have really liked to have a leviathan or two at his beck and call… they were so much more efficient than demons. But really… Canada?

"What we really need," Crowley said to no one in particular, "is a nice long stretch of quiet to get back on track."

"You do realize that was Hoover's plan to get out of the Great Depression." A wry voice answered him. "And he wasn't re-elected."

Slightly startled, Crowley looked up. A perfectly normal-looking fellow stood in the doorway, leaning against the door frame. He wore a gray suit, and he spoke with a British accent. But despite the appearance of normalcy, the presence that now swept through the room was ancient and powerful, almost overwhelming. It was neither angel nor demon, and certainly not human. Crowley had only come across one like it once before.

"Well," Crowley said, eyeing the newcomer, "fortunately, we don't have elections for the position King of Hell. It's more of a, you-hold-onto-it-as-long-as-you-lacerate-the-competition position." His guest laughed at this.

"A physical power struggle! How 1930! You make the administration of the Eternal fire seem like a petty gang in which everyone is dealing behind everyone else to become gang leader. I suppose I shouldn't have expected much more from a species of ex-humans twisted and burned into nothing but smoke."

"We are only demons after all." Crowley replied sarcastically.

"Yes, quite! Imagine my surprise when I came down here to discover YOU were the infamous Crowley, King of Hell himself! What a PROPER title. You don't quite fit the image I had prepared though… I was expecting someone, oh, taller maybe. Certainly not someone who frequents around as an FBI agent with my old colleague."

"We all have our hidden talents." Crowley said delicately, "For instance, the air around you seems a bit… charged."

"Believe me; you haven't the slightest idea…" The stranger said, looking casually around Crowley's office. He drummed his fingers on the table absentmindedly, as he looked at Crowley's framed picture of the Bobby Singer deal.

"Can I get you a drink?" Crowley offered his guest. "It's not often I have company of an intelligent nature down here… and frankly I'd love to know how exactly you found 'here'." If there was one thing Crowley knew better than anyone else, it was that it paid to be polite until you were certain there was no point in it.

"Oh I'm sure you would! But I'm afraid I can't… I'm here strictly on business, and I have quite a bit that needs to be done… I'm sure you can relate." He glanced at Crowley's desk. "At any rate, I thought I'd just pop in and give you this notice… you know, courtesy and all."

"Very thoughtful of you." Crowley said, fighting the feeling of alarm that was growing by the second. "But what 'notice' are we talking about exactly?"

"Well, 'Mr. Delaware'… I thought it only fair to warn you that Hell is about to get rather hot." The man said with a smile.

"…Well I'm aware of the common stereotypical association, but that sounds rather metaphorical. Care to elaborate?"

"I'm afraid I haven't got the time to spare. I'm running a bit behind schedule, and I do have a door to go knock on… have a nice day, Crowley… though I doubt you will…"

And with that, the stranger smiled and left, leaving Crowley to sit for a second, quite lost.

SMASH

As the terrible smash echoed up from where it occurred far away in the depths of Hell, Crowley was brought roughly to his senses. He hastily grabbed his jacket and looked for his cellphone.

SMASH

He tore through his file cabinet. Files on demons, files on Angels, the whole drawer on the Winchesters… Where was it?!

SMASH

Finally he found it. A thin file marked simply, "Doctor Who?" He glanced around briefly, desperately hoping he hadn't forgotten anything. Oh yes. The bottle of Craig… it wouldn't pay to leave that.

SMASH

Crowley was long gone before the fourth knock sounded, but as he sat down on the dingy motel bed, miles upon miles away, he knew one thing for certain.

This was the worst Monday he'd had in a long time.