The end.
Like bells, the words rang through Crowley's mind. He was on his knees, blood on his lips, devil's trap hanging crimson overhead. It was the end of an uneasy alliance, of a careful lie, of whatever good will remained from all he had done for them while the Devil walked the earth. Doubt's mocking words in his head said it was the end of his life as well. Yet nothing happened to Crowley that he could not twist to his advantage—of that he was certain. Even trapped and staring down that cruel knife, he knew he would escape, because that was what he always did. He survived.
Crowley allowed a bit of fear to seep into his expression, but beneath it he was calculating. The petty demon whose name he had forgotten stepped into the trap, and said something to the Winchesters that he barely heard. He sized up her position, the knife, her likely next move, the hate and triumph in her eyes. She thought she had already won.
She raised the knife. "This is for Lucifer, you pompous little—"
In a swift motion, Crowley caught her wrist and kicked her legs out from under her. She fell with a grunt and dropped the knife, which he snatched up before she could react. Crowley stood and smirked at the boys, who were staring at him in horror. With a flick of his wrist the knife flew up, embedding itself in the ceiling and breaking the devil's trap with a flash of light. "That's better," he remarked as the trap's weight dissipated. He swept both arms outward and the boys flew in opposite directions, slamming into the walls. As Crowley reached up, the knife flew back into his grasp, just in time for the demon on the floor to stand. She recoiled at the blade less than an inch from her mouth. "You don't know torture, you little insect," Crowley snapped.
At that moment he felt something shift. A flutter of wings, the scent of ozone, and a suffocating presence filled the room. He turned to see the angel Castiel, in his usual harried-looking vessel and worn trench coat.
"Leave them alone," Castiel ordered.
Crowley swallowed his loathing for a moment. "Castiel," he remarked. "Haven't seen you all season. You're the cavalry now?"
Castiel's blue eyes were unblinking. "Put the knife down."
"You that bossy in Heaven?" Crowley smiled, veiling his growing concern with wit. "Hear you're losing out to Raphael. Whole affair makes Vietnam look like a roller derby."
Castiel raised his arm to point something at Crowley's head. Crowley realized with surprise that it was the Colt, its barrel gleaming. He felt pinned by its narrow metal gaze. He had faced it once before, but at that time he knew it was empty. This time…
This is the end, Crowley.
From over against the wall, Dean looked puzzled—or at least more puzzled than usual. "Cas, how did you—"
"It is of no importance," Castiel barked. "If you had not been so careless I would not have had to look for it."
"Sure you know how to use that thing?" said Crowley, his mind spinning. He had to get away, but that damnable spell was blocking him. He began to work through the ritual to undo it in his head. "Better be careful, you might hurt yourself."
"The only thing I will hurt is you," said Castiel. "Now put the knife down."
Slowly, Crowley lowered the blade. "Is this you boys' idea of poetic justice?" he continued, buying time. "I gave that gun to you. You'd still be chasing your tails if it weren't for—"
"Can you restore Sam's soul or not?" the angel interrupted.
Crowley gazed at him for a moment, still reciting the reversal ritual in his mind. It was nearly finished. He snapped his fingers to release Sam and Dean. "If I can help out in…any other—"
"Answer him!" Dean shouted, taking a step forward.
Crowley glanced at the brothers. Dean was glowering, and Sam's expression was coldly blank, with a hint of cruelty in his eyes. Crowley wished he had never heard of them. He looked back at Castiel and felt the faintest relief as he finished the ritual. "I can't," he said finally, hating to admit his failing a second time.
The end.
Castiel pulled the trigger.
Click of metal, hint of flame, searing gunpowder—
But Crowley was already gone.
Crowley had not been thinking of a specific location, only of getting away, so he was slightly surprised to find himself in a park. After a moment he recognized it as Ash Hill Park near New York City, a place he had occasionally taken his hound to—at night, of course, since the hound was invisible to most humans. It was a beautiful, quiet place, where he felt as safe as he ever did. There were a few people around, joggers and the like, but no one seemed to have noticed a man in a black suit appear in their midst.
Exhausted, Crowley sank down onto a bench. Everything had gone wrong so quickly. Undoubtedly the Winchesters and their angel friend would kill the alphas he had collected. It had been such a waste of time and effort—the few bits of information he got from the monsters had led nowhere, leaving him no closer to finding Purgatory than he had been a year before. The monsters either knew nothing or had wills of iron, his demon underlings were by turns incompetent or traitorous—and meanwhile Lucifer and Michael were barely trapped in a cage whose seals had already been broken.
Becoming king of Hell had been Crowley's goal for many years. He wanted power, but more than that he wanted the freedom to do as he pleased, to be under no one's command. Ages of conniving, political maneuvering, and sheer hard work had positioned him to take the throne after Lilith's death and Lucifer's defeat. Soon after becoming king, however, Crowley discovered that staying king was the hard part.
His botched attempt to remove Sam Winchester from the cage had shown Crowley the limits of his new power. He might have been able to remove Sam entirely if the boy had been alone in there, but with Michael and Lucifer fighting it was impossible. Someone with a bit more power—God, Death, perhaps the angel Raphael if he gathered enough heavenly artifacts—could pluck one or both of them from the cage. If that happened, the apocalypse would start again in earnest, and Lucifer's allies would crawl back out of the cracks they were hiding in. Between them and the monsters, Crowley would be forced to fight half of creation for his life.
Again.
Crowley sighed and leaned forward to rest his head in his hands. Everything in his life was tenuous, and only more power could make him more secure—hence the search for Purgatory. There were monsters as old as Earth there, the very progenitors of all other monsters. Capturing the soul of one of these elder monsters might give him enough additional strength to bar the cage more securely, ensuring his reign—and survival. It was not a very good plan, but the nearly open cage made Crowley nervous, and there were only so many possible ways to close it.
But how was he going to find Purgatory now?
First things first, though. Crowley sat up straight, pulled out his iPhone, and dialed one of his demon commanders, Gamboge.
The other demon answered after a single ring. "Afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?"
"Had a bit of a problem at the prison in Missouri. Quite a mess, actually. The Winchesters," he growled. "I need you to send a little team over there for clean-up. Wait an hour or two to be sure the Hardy boys are gone."
"Of course," said Gamboge. "Would you like the alphas moved to a different facility?"
"No. Kill any that are still alive. Torch the place afterwards."
"But sir, if you don't mind my saying…we don't know where Purgatory is yet. We were making progress, too—I heard Temeluchus is on the trail of an alpha rugaru."
Crowley's green eyes narrowed. "He's supposed to be tracking down Lucifer loyalists. If things pan out the way I suspect they will, we're about to experience more attacks from them. Of course, if Temeluchus had been doing his job instead of chasing a cannibal we might not have this problem."
"I…I apologize, sir. I'll tell him."
"Good. And forget Purgatory. I'll find it myself."
"…Sir?"
Crowley sighed. "Do I need to spell everything out for you people? I am going to find Purgatory. If I have anything further to say on the matter, I will let you know!" Crowley's raised voice got the attention of a woman pushing a stroller, but one withering look from him made her skitter away like a spider.
"Of…of course, sir…" Gamboge said quickly. "I'll go over to the prison right away."
"Yes, you will," Crowley snapped, then hung up and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.
At that moment he felt a strange tug, as if someone had grabbed his shoulder. Crowley knew that feeling all too well—he was being summoned. He had created a shield around himself after the fiasco with Bobby Singer, but he could still tell when someone was trying. Closing his eyes, Crowley focused on where the call was coming from. It was not an Enochian summoning ritual, because those were far stronger and caused physical pain. That meant it was not Castiel, fortunately. A standard goetic evocation, then. But who…
Witches. Crowley was sure of it.
He shook his head and sighed. Of course. As a rule, witches were nosy and obnoxious, and a few were just powerful enough to be a threat. Powerful enough to…
A smile crept across Crowley's face as something occurred to him. A skilled witch could possibly divine Purgatory's location. It might be a long shot, but it was worth trying—and nothing else had worked so far.
Crowley stood and brushed off his suit. He would answer their summons, but not quite the way they expected. Grinning to himself, he vanished.
