Prologue

The roaring overhead had ceased. Crowley could still hear Dean's insistent voice outside as he reassured Sam. They'd forgotten about him still chained to the floor and bound by the Devil's Trap. It was just as well. He was too tired to really care what happened to him now. Too tired and too convinced of the belief he was beyond consideration.

He shifted uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair; the chain connecting the shackle around his neck twisted and forced him back with a jerk. He fell back against the headrest with a pained grunt. Every part of him ached. His face burned from where Abaddon had struck him repeatedly; blood still stained his lips and congealed in his beard. Sweat mingled with tears to create dry, itchy patches down his cheeks. He didn't bother attempting to relieve this discomfort. His hands hung limp in his lap, bound still by the enchanted manacles. He was hot, his head throbbed, his legs had gone slightly numb from being unable to move; worse still, his heart felt like a heavy burden in his chest.

Sam's blood continued to course through his veins, warming it in ways he'd forgotten were possible. It was as if the boy's own regrets had fueled Crowley's, leading to this overwhelming sense of despair currently plaguing his heart and mind. He looked up towards the ceiling, then over at the broken window. He couldn't see anything; what was the point in trying? He moved in the chair again, the chain clanking like an anchor's along the church floor. The sound echoed through the derelict building. He shifted again, trying to gain something resembling comfort in the unforgiving chair. The chain continued to rattle behind him, causing a great cacophony of sound that echoed throughout the building.

"Keep it down in there!" Dean bellowed suddenly from outside.

Crowley froze. He tried to speak, but his throat felt too raw. Any attempt resulted in a gasping noise, either from the weight of the shackle or his own exhaustion. He continued to move about in the chair, sending the long chain into a frenzy of sound until he heard the doors open. "The hell you doin' in here? Havin' a party?" Dean demanded, rounding the chair to glare down at Crowley.

Crowley swallowed hard, then forced the words to come. "Let me go." Dean stared at him incredulously. It was apparent he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. Crowley lifted his hands. "Take these off, then. Take this off," he stretched his neck slightly. "I can't go anywhere. You know that."

"Yeah, well, you're just gonna have to sit there and deal with it until I know what we're gonna do with you," Dean said firmly. He turned and left. Crowley bent his head, the shackle biting into his skin, and resigned himself to waiting. After a moment, he could hear Dean speaking louder than before, protesting something Sam had said. He lifted his eyes, daring to hope again, when Dean reappeared.

He marched over to Crowley and began unlocking the collar and manacles on his wrists and ankles. Crowley watched him out the corner of his eye in silence. When all restraints had been removed, Crowley slumped in the chair and closed his eyes. He would have thanked Dean, but the other had already gone back outside. It was just as well. It would have been rebuffed. Dean had no cause to accept a demon's gratitude, nor could Crowley blame him.

The chair quickly became a poor resting place, prompting Crowley to slide out of it and lay on the floor. He curled onto his side, one arm pillowing his head, his back against the chair legs, and his mind a jumble of thoughts. He felt the crushing weight of self-loathing settling over him. It wasn't a foreign sensation. He'd experienced it countless times, even when his inhumanity had robbed him of all things save self-preservation. Now it no longer seemed to matter if he survived this. What would be the point? He had no followers, not a single demon in Hell had been truly loyal. There was no way he could resume his position as King of Hell with how he was now. An emotional king? He'd be laughed out of Hades. He'd spent the majority of his time as the Crossroads King, as a demon alone, being the butt of everyone's jokes. No one had ever afforded him a measure of respect, even when he had titles. He'd been a powerful, cunning demon, worthy of the respect he felt he deserved, yet not a one of them had condescended to view him as more than a joke. No, he would never be able to return to Hell and hope to reclaim what he'd fought so hard to obtain.

He wanted to sleep. It was a strange feeling, the need for sleep. His eyes closed almost against his will and soon he'd drifted off into an uncomfortable slumber. The scenes behind his eyelids were erratic, as close to dreams as a demon could call them. Most were bloody, peppered with his own declarations of impeccable skill and smarts, with the uplifting feeling of triumph whenever he succeeded in surviving yet another impossible scenario. These taunted him and he shrunk away from them mentally and physically.

Then, a warmth filled him. He felt someone's hand on his brow and a soothing voice whispered comforting words in his ear. He turned his face towards this warmth, the memory of a year spent this way smoothing away the pain in his heart. A face began to form in his mind's eyes, pale and haloed by copper brilliance. Gentle brown eyes gazed down at him, filled with such affection he felt for certain it was a dream and not a memory at all. Who could have ever looked at him that way? Who would have dared?

Before he could recall a name, a rough hand shook him awake. Crowley blinked rapidly, then twisted to see Dean leaning over him. "Let's go," the hunter ordered gruffly. Crowley staggered to his feet, his mouth opening to ask what was going on. Without warning, a burlap sack was yanked over his head and his hands were bound behind his back. The sack was emblazoned with a Devil's Trap; a trick Dean undoubtedly had learned from Crowley himself. He was led outside by Dean's hasty grip on his upper arm; in another moment, he was being put into the back seat of the Impala. Crowley could hear Sam's ragged breathing from the front seat. He leaned towards the sound.

"Sam...?" Crowley managed through the muffled constraints of the sack.

"Hang in there, Sammy. I'm gonna get you outta here," Dean's voice sounded from the driver's side. Crowley fell silent as the engine roared to life. He flopped back against the seat when the car tore away at top speed, his temple striking a protruding seatbelt port. He saw stars briefly, then the sound of Dean's voice fading into the background as unconsciousness overtook him.

" - can't believe you wanna do this! It's crazy! You should be back at the Batcave where I can take care of you, not here with the King of Feelings!"

The muffled sound of Dean's protests pulled Crowley back from unconsciousness. He opened his eyes and took a look around. The room was dark save for a sliver of light coming from beneath the door. He could make out Dean's shadow as the hunter paced about in the other room.

"Dean, he's my responsibility. I made him that way. It's only right that I keep an eye on him," Sam was saying in response to his brother's words. He sounded absolutely knackered. "You don't have to stay here. Garth's already agreed to check on me from time to time, just like he did with Kevin. You should be out there looking for Cas, not babysitting me."

"This is still crazy, Sammy. What if he gets out? Powers up again or somethin'? You're too weak to fight!"

"If I'm in no condition to fight, Crowley sure as hell isn't, either. Did you look at him? I mean really look at him? Between the trial and Abaddon's beating, he won't be getting up for weeks. There's wards on the door and he's in a Devil's Trap. He's not going anywhere."

When silence fell between the brothers, Crowley looked around to confirm what Sam had already said. He was indeed in another Devil's Trap; he could feel the wards pulsating just beyond the Trap's circle. His hands and feet were unbound, not that either mattered. He was effectively trapped even without the addition of chains.

"I'm still not cool with this," Dean continued. "You're sure?" he asked after a pregnant pause.

"Yes, I'm sure. I'll be fine. I swear," Sam replied, sounding more exhausted than before. The exchange was taking a toll on his already worn psyche. Crowley's ability to sympathise with the younger Winchester would have shocked him more if he hadn't already been secretly doing it for years. In the spirit of this, he raised his voice the best he could and spoke towards the door.

"Sam's right," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

The door opened, spilling harsh light into the dark room. Crowley squinted into the sudden glare, barely able to make out Dean's silhouette. "Oh, I know you're not goin' anywhere, Crowley. I made sure of that."

Crowley stared at him. "Even without these precautions, where would I go?" he asked quietly. The question was rhetorical, though he could see Dean searching for an answer. "There's nothing more you could do to keep me here than what I've already done to myself. I've no home to go to. I'm back where I started."

"Back at the bottom of the totem pole, is that it?" Dean asked gruffly. Crowley lowered his head. "About damn time."

"Dean," Sam admonished weakly. Dean glanced over his shoulder at his brother. "Let it go."

"I will, but only because you asked me to," Dean replied, looking back at Crowley sternly before closing the door. "Garth's comin' back soon. You take it easy, okay?"

"I will, Dean. I'll call you if anything changes," Sam assured him. Crowley heard Dean moving about and continuing to voice his concerns to Sam for wanting to stay with Crowley alone; at length, he heard Dean leave. He sat staring at the closed door, the silence around him near unbearable. He wanted to communicate, to speak his mind, to hear any other voice than the one screaming in his head. That voice abused him, calling him a failure and a coward. He didn't want to listen to that voice anymore. It wasn't telling him anything he hadn't muttered to himself in the church.

He could remember another voice, a kinder voice, that would speak to him at night. It'd said gentle, loving things. Things he never believed he'd hear from another living thing. Had it been the same dream he'd had before waking up here? That pretty face with the kind eyes? Who was that? He narrowed his eyes slightly, forcing himself to focus on the image. It blurred and shifted, the features never coming clear. After a moment, he gave up with a silent sigh and stretched out on the hard wooden floor. He lay curled with his back to the door. He held himself tightly and brought his knees up to his chest, as if he could physically shut out the negative thoughts continuing to march across the landscape of his mind.

In the suffocating darkness, Crowley eventually found sleep. He fell into it gratefully, the faint sound of a woman's laugh echoing in his mind.

The creak of the floorboards beneath his head drew Crowley from the respite of slumber; he lifted his head groggily, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder. Sam stood in the doorway, a tray balanced in one hand. He looked drawn: his cheeks were hollow and there were heavy shadows under his eyes. Still, he moved with a strength Crowley was certain he didn't feel as he stepped into the room and laid the tray down outside of the Trap's border.

Crowley sat up, lifting his eyes to meet Sam's tired gaze. Sam gestured down at the tray and murmured, "Thought you'd be hungry."

"I am," Crowley realised, absently touching his stomach. "Thank you, Sam."

"It's not much. Just a sandwich and water. Garth's bringing supplies," Sam explained needlessly, his eyes shifting away from Crowley's face as he spoke. He appeared dazed, as though he couldn't remember how he'd gotten inside the room. He shook his head haltingly, muttered something Crowley couldn't make out, then turned and left.

Crowley moved closer to the tray, reaching out to carefully catch its edge and draw it into the circle. The sandwich in question was a ham and cheese combo on slightly stiff white bread. A packet's worth of mayonnaise moistened the bread just enough to make it palatable. He ate slowly, his mind blessedly devoid of the nagging voice. The brief exchange had helped, it seemed.

He didn't like being alone. Alone meant no one cared. Alone meant no one was there to listen to him or compliment him on his cleverness. His brow furrowed, his jaw slowing as he found himself thinking back to that same dim memory. Someone had been there for him to listen to him and applaud his successes. Where did that person go? Had they left him the same way his followers had?

Then, almost as if by instinct, Crowley scratched at his chest. A sudden warmth there made him look down, puzzled. He set the sandwich back on the tray and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. He parted the lapels, straining to see what it was that burned there in the dim light. He ran his fingertips over the spot gingerly, his breath catching to discover a raised symbol burned into his flesh. He traced its outline carefully, the memory of the other steadily growing more vivid. When he'd completed the circuit to form the symbol, a name rose so forcefully to the forefront of his mind, the wind was knocked clean from him.

Murron.

Immediately his eyes began to fill with tears. They coursed down his bruised cheek, stinging the still-healing wounds to match the pain he felt seizing his heart. How could he have forgotten about her? Hadn't he ensured her soul would never be touched by Hell's influence? Had he erased his own memories of her in the process? Or had his ascent to power blocked out the last act of goodness he'd granted her soul? She'd been a weakness; of course he'd blocked her out.

But now, with a heart as raw as an exposed nerve, he remembered her as vividly as though she'd died just the day before. He could hear her voice, her laugh, feel the warmth of her skin on his, the texture of her hair as he wound it about his fingers - he remembered her.

A tortured, choking cry escaped his throat and he covered his face with both hands. The anguish washed over him in quaking waves, crippling his senses to the point he didn't realise Sam was there until he felt the boy's firm grip on his shoulders. Crowley raised his head, vision lost in the flood of tears that would not stop, perceiving that Sam was speaking to him, but his voice refused to register through the roaring in Crowley's ears.

"- what's wrong? Crowley!" Sam's voice broke through the veil of Crowley's pain. Clarity returned to his gaze as he met Sam's eyes. "Why are you screaming?"

Had he been screaming? Crowley couldn't be sure. He swallowed, surprised to find his throat dry. His face contorted on the emotions still moving through him. "Is she here?" he managed, his voice so hoarse it was barely audible. Sam stared at him, lost.

"Is who here?"

Crowley drew his brows together, his gaze shifting away from Sam's face to stare off into the distance. "No, she's not here. She's still there. I have to get her out. I can't let her stay down there."

"You're babbling," Sam interjected, giving Crowley's shoulder another shake and forcing the other to look at him again. The lucidity in Crowley's eyes had vanished again, replaced by an intense sadness.

"I need her back, Sam. I'm lost without her." His voice cracked and he looked away again. Sam was silent, not that anything he said could've broken the despair that made Crowley's heart heavy inside his chest. All he could think about was Murron, alone and defenseless back in Hell. He pressed a shaking hand to his chest where her protective sigil burned. He couldn't feel her through the Devil's Trap or the wards around the room. "I need to feel her. I need to know she's okay," he said, more to himself than Sam. "I can't feel her here."

"Who are you talking about, Crowley?" Sam asked, his voice low. When Crowley didn't react, he repeated himself, this time a little more insistently. Crowley turned his head towards him shakily, as though he'd forgotten he was there.

"Murron," he replied simply, softly. "The absolute only person to have ever loved me, for me. She -" he paused to swallow thickly, the memory bringing fresh pain. "She was a demon deal. Just a normal, boring demon deal. Anyone could have gone to her. But she wanted me. Me. Why would anyone want me?" His words drifted off. "The things I've done. The things I encouraged her to do. No, no." He shook his head. "The things she'd done for me. She gave me her soul, but it was more than that. I had her heart as well." He laughed brokenly, then looked up at Sam, his face twisting as he struggled not to lose his voice again. "Do you believe in unconditional love, Sam?"

Sam regarded him in silence. He made a small noise of indecision, then shrugged. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do. Why?"

"Because that's what it was for her. Unconditional," Crowley drew out the word like a prayer. "I was a killer - I am a killer - but she never tried, not once, to change me. I used to think she was crazy; who loves a monster?"

Sam seemed to be at a loss. "Maybe she saw something in you worth loving?" he offered uncertainly. Crowley's lips twitched upward in a sad smile. Sam sighed. "I don't know. People...people love for a lot of reasons. She must've had hers. She never told you?"

"She did. I think she did," Crowley's gaze shifted as he sought the memory. "Yes," he said at last, relieved. "It was on the island. I'd taken her there during her last month alive. She didn't want to stay the whole time. She wanted to die in her own home. I'd given her that, too." He stopped, eyelids twitching. "Why can't I remember how she smelled? I remember loving that the best, but I can't remember it now..."

"You loved her?" Sam's voice broke into Crowley's memories. He sounded incredulous, but not rudely so. Crowley thought about his question, then nodded.

"I did. I do. I think I always did. I never told her. Maybe if I had, she'd still be here. It would be her taking care of me now. I wouldn't be here, in this trap." He looked down at the pentacle holding him in. "I'd be home with her. I'd be safe." He stopped again and was silent for a long time. "I need her back, Sam. I have to go back into Hell for her."

"How?"

Here Crowley lowered his gaze briefly. When he turned his eyes back towards Sam, they were hopeful. "I need your help, Sam. Will you help me get the woman I love back?"