Time Frame: Late or Post-Season 11
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mild Language, SPOILER (Season 7 and on)
A/N: This headcanon's been bouncing around my head for a while. A certain character's fate was left up in the air and this is my take on it.
Not much surprised Crowley. He was the consummate schemer, an absolute planner, priding himself in his ability to predict events well before they occurred. This skill had saved his existence numerous times. He rather enjoyed playing his enemies; not just like a violin, no he'd played them like the whole damn orchestra.
But the soul caught him completely off guard.
He never expected to see it again. Oh, not too long ago, he'd have jumped at the opportunity to nab that particular soul. So much torment he'd love to introduce it to. Hell had no shortage of inventive ways of dispensing pain. Crowley was a fan of them all. Times change (sadly), and it was no longer advantageous for him to act on his more savage instincts, no matter how enjoyable.
At least, in this instance.
Association with the Winchesters had certainly complicated things. It helped at times - saved his life once or twice (Crowley's highest priority) - but it sure was a pain in the ass at other times. A recurring flaw of humanity was its need to stupidly befriend everything in sight. And those two morons took their friendships to insane and protective heights. This soul counted itself in that 'insanely protected' category.
That made its unexpected arrival more problematic. The boys weren't going to like him having it (severe understatement), but what could he do with it? Crowley was in the business of luring souls to Hell, not getting rid of them.
Oh, sure, he could cast it into the Empty, but the idiots wouldn't care much (or at all) for that option. He sure as Hell (ha ha) couldn't take the thing up to Heaven - wouldn't that be a trip? - and souls on Earth turned twisted and evil in short order. Add that to the list of things the damned Winchesters wouldn't approve of.
Which left him with an unwanted soul in Hell, probably the only unwanted one here.
Adding yet another complication - because this whole mess wasn't buggered enough - he didn't notice when the soul arrived. Not his fault, really. It wasn't scheduled for Hell. It was protected, out of his, and therefore Hell's, reach. Crowley had long since resigned himself to losing this one. So he didn't notice when it drifted in with hundreds of others.
Honestly, thousands of people died every hour. Hell only nabbed a portion of them, but still the numbers that poured through their gates daily were staggering. Crowley couldn't monitor every single soul that passed his way.
The soul wandered in and was lost with the masses.
Crowley didn't learn of its presence until just over a year later. A mortal year, that is, not a year as Hell measured it. Time down there was a fickle thing. An Earth year spent in Hell felt close to five hundred.
This soul, treasured by those flannel-wearing prats, had spent almost half a millennium down there, tortured and mutilated, subjugated to all the physical and psychological punishment his demons could muster.
Standard treatment.
Crowley would have loved to leave it down there, writhing and screaming, but those Winchesters always seemed to learn things they shouldn't. More annoying than any humans had any right to be. Fragile things like that should understand how squishy they really were and keep their noses out of others affairs. The Winchesters had never understood that.
He pulled the soul from the racks and dropped it into an empty cell.
And left it.
What else could Crowley do? He had to see how much, if any, of the original personality survived. He wasn't going to leave it on the racks for the boys to find, and he certainly wasn't going to tell them about a broken soul, one they cared for and loved, that had suffered five hundred years torment in his kingdom.
It didn't look good.
The soul raged and howled, tearing at the walls and the floor, throwing itself against both. Had the soul still possessed flesh, it'd have torn itself to shreds. Incoherent wails echoed through the cell. Crowley watched from afar, tapping his fingers against his throne. Breaking souls was easy. Time consuming, yes, but easy. It was Hell's business. Fixing them? Huh. Not really his thing.
As sickening as it was, Crowley turned to the wonder twins for guidance. Not literally, of course. He couldn't very well ask them for help with the very thing he hoped to hide from them. Both of the Winchesters had spent time enjoying the 'finest' accommodations in Hell, and both had recovered, in time. He studied what he could of their rehabilitation. It was all second hand, bits and morsels he managed to cobble together. (The Supernatural books were exceedingly helpful researching Dean's trip back to what Squirrel considered 'normal'. No such luck with Moose. Carver Edlund had stopped writing just in time to not reveal that info.)
Crowley concluded, albeit reluctantly, that damaged souls recovered better with support from their loved ones. Not happening down here. Hell wasn't really a friend and family place. At least not the friends or family of this soul.
Back to the proverbial square one.
Crowley settled on hooking up a projector, attaching it to a secluded (and protected - very important, seeing that the soul was intent on destroying its surroundings) niche, and having it run repeating footage of the boy wonders.
Personally, Crowley would have considered that a new torment, himself, but mortal souls had different (and unfathomable) tastes.
Years passed in Hell (mere days on Earth) and it paid no heed to the Winchester footage. Slowly though, the raging and howling, quieted. The soul huddled on the floor, curled up and silent. Crowley didn't catch when it happened - he did have a kingdom to run, thank you very much - but the soul started watching the projections. It stared at the clips, viewed them endlessly repeating themselves, even touched the wall they were projected on.
Crowley decided to take that as a good sign, and not a new stage of madness.
Clearing out one of Alastair's old torture chambers - how many torture chambers did one bloody demon need anyway? None now, of course - Crowley outfitted it with a couple sturdy tables, a chair, and a few other items: some books (the Supernatural ones were an obvious literary choice, and he threw in others that seemed appropriate), a few grainy and poor quality screen captures of the boys (it's not like Crowley had a pictures of those prats just hanging around), and a telly set up with an intriguing human invention called Netflix. Would the soul have any clue what Netflix was? Probably not, but oh well.
Couldn't say Crowley didn't try.
He had it moved to its new accommodations, carefully staying away himself. Not knowing how the soul would react, Crowley wanted to stay clear of it. He didn't have the most amicable relationship with this one. No sense in piling on any more stress. Instead, he sent one of his assistants, Jervis, to move it. Good enough bloke and, most important, expendable if the soul went rabid again.
It settled in as well as could be expected; it stared uncomprehendingly at its new 'home', then curled up against the wall. Spectacular.
Maybe some company would help. Crowley assigned Jervis to check in on the soul at regular intervals. He didn't expect the other demon to be friendly - that'd be laughable. But an actual human (well, human looking) face around might help the soul past the huddling stage. He hoped.
Honestly, what the Hell did he know about helping people? At least, when it didn't involve those same people selling their souls to him.
Crowley didn't really forget about the soul, as much as get distracted with more important and, frankly, more interesting things. It was a soul crouched in a room, not healing like a good soul should. Boring. He did remember, eventually, and asked Jervis how (and if) it was recovering.
It had progressed from huddling to sitting. It even read, and had apparently made some strides towards actual conversation. Those dialogs centered around where it was, what was happening, and the current location of the Winchesters. To his credit, Jervis had deflected those questions quite well.
Given actual, noticeable improvement, Crowley turned his attention back to it.
From his throne room, he watched. He provided more reading materials - magazines and newspapers. It preferred the Supernatural books (not a shock), but whenever Jervis arrived with new items, it devoured them. Not literally, thankfully. It even learned, with help, how to work Netflix. The soul was improving, regaining its humanity, becoming the man it had been.
And that man realized where he was.
He demanded, with increasing levels of brusqueness, to see Crowley. Not that the soul had ever been known for politeness or patience. Crowley ignored the demand, instead continuing to observe him from soul was recovering. Judging by his actions (particularly his increasing temper), he appeared to be almost himself again.
There was no help for it. Crowley would have to meet with him. That was the whole point of this mess. Take care of the soul so if - or, more likely, when - the boys found out, they'd be less likely to storm Hell again. It'd be easier if the soul was on board with him.
Straightening his cuff links - pointless, the soul wouldn't give a damn - Crowley teleported into the chamber. The human soul looked up from his reading, eyes meeting the demon's.
Putting on his most disarming smile, Crowley said, "Hello, Bobby."