Chapter Two
That night, you didn't sleep; you couldn't sleep. As soon as Crowley left, the walls that formed in your mind fell and the dam holding back your tears crumbled. You flung yourself against the pale blue quilt, burying your face in the pillows to muffle the sounds of your own sobbing.
They're gone. The two people you have left to love in the world you can never see again, and it rips your withered heart in two. 'I can't go through with this', you think to yourself. 'God, please help me!' you pray.
Through your sorrow, an empty chuckle rises in your throat. If God were ever to heed your prayers, he certainly wouldn't hear them now. Residing in Hell for the rest of your miserable existence, your soul in the possession of a demon king, forever to be tainted with the evil of your surroundings with no hope for redemption . . . no, God can't help you now.
No one can. So you cry and sob and wallow in your self-pity until consciousness leaves you empty. Your vision fades and you drift off into an empty, dreamless sleep.
You wake up the next morning to a dark and empty room. Entangled in the quilt, your eyes puffy and head groggy from the night before, you slowly lift your head and glance around. There is nothing to tell you what time of day it is, or whether it is daytime at all.
You stand and roam around the room. You spend hours scoping out every single crack and crevice of your cell and find that it is as lavish as you thought it was last night. The furniture is all well-crafted and ornate. You don't expect anything less though from a ponce like Crowley.
Crowley . . . the fucking King of Hell, your captor. His play-thing! The thought makes you shiver. What could he have in store for you? What deranged methods of torture will he use to break you? All you have to go on is what Sam and Dean had told you about their interactions with him and that he was, in Dean's own words, a sick son of a bitch. You are scared, and you are afraid that you may not last long enough for the boys to come to your rescue.
Your days spent here are long, like years slipping through your fingers. You sit in your room all by yourself until you think you will go insane. Food and clothes are brought to you by nameless demons. When they come, you cower in the corner, avoiding eye contact as they laugh and mock the sad little human. Day two you tried to pull the door off its hinges with your bare hands. Obviously that didn't work, so you threw furniture at it and scratched at the paneling until your nailbeds ached.
As day three rolls around – you guess – and you sit on the bed running your hands through your stringy hair, you hear a soft knocking at the door. The door swings open and an older man with a snow-white beard, mustache, and hair to match saunters in holding a pile of folded garments. He places them on the table and turns to close the door.
"Good morning, Madam," he chimes indifferently. He wears a neat suit buttoned up nice and proper with his hands fastened in front of him and a frown pulling down the edges of his moustache. "My name is Guthrie. His majesty has asked me to fetch you."
"What does he want?" Your voice is coarse and raw from not speaking to anyone in days. This Guthrie looks different from any other demon you've come across. He almost looks like his meat suit would have been a nice guy.
Guthrie doesn't answer your question, but instead flicks his eyes to the bundle of clothes on the table, then back to you. "Get dressed," he says flatly.
You stand from the bed and cross your arms in front of your chest stubbornly. "What does Crowley want?"
Guthrie's eyes narrow and he raises a hand in front of him. The click of his snap rings out in the close quarters and the bundle disappears. You glance down to see that he has dressed you himself. A silky black dress clings loosely to your body, hanging from one shoulder to taper down and stop midway down your thighs. Thin fishnet hose and tall black stiletto heels make you feel revealed and indecent in front of the old man. Your hands fall away to grasp the hem of the dress in an attempt to pull it down further. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror – your hair flutters down your shoulders in large exaggerated curls, your eyes are adorned with thick black eyeliner and your lips red as blood. Your head snaps back to Guthrie as he opens the door and beckons for you to follow him.
"There's no way in hell I'm coming out of this room dressed like this." You cross your arms again and try for your most threatening frown.
Guthrie is unfazed and gives you an exasperated look, so very tired of your insolence already. "I am sorry to inform, but you are in Hell. And the King has requested your presence. Shall I drag you to the main hall by your heels? Or will you do as you are told?"
You hesitate. After a moment, Guthrie rolls his eyes and steps towards you. You back step away, your hands coming up to defend and you agree to go willingly. Damn him. And damn Crowley.
Cold, dark stone lines the walls of the shadowy hallways that are only lit by the occasional candles shining against the black. You walk closely behind Guthrie. In the distance, you hear the wailing of all the tortured souls down in the depths of Hell itself. You try so hard not to think of all the pain, all the suffering that is happening not far enough away. Dean told you of his time here. He remembered every horrifying detail and told you all he could. A single tear trickles down your cheek at the ghost of his memory, and that is all you will allow as you pull your shoulders back and push all thoughts away, focusing your senses on the black around you.
Guthrie leads you down a series of long halls that wind every which way; you're sure you can't find your way back to your room on your own. He stops at a pair of large brass doors and turns to face you, shoving a platter of food into your arms. "Keep your head high, tend to the master, and behave yourself. His majesty is not a patient man, as I am sure you are well aware." With that, he is gone in a puff of smoke and you stand alone in front of the imposing doors.
Suddenly, they open to reveal a spacious throne room with sprawling archways and stonework twisting up to the vaulted ceilings. The whole room is bathed in light from a single, enormous chandelier hanging low in the center of the court room. And of course, sitting poised atop his throne is your warden. Your imprisoner. Your master.
His eyes flick up to yours and he smirks. "Ah, good. You're finally up. My, my, don't you look lovely?"
You walk forward a few steps and place the tray of food forcefully on a nearby desktop. Without looking at him, you grimace. "I look like a whore."
"I suppose that does depend on your perspective, eh? You are in the company of sinners, after all." He grins, rising up from the throne to come close and place a hand under your chin. "When compared to some of the whores down here, you could be considered a rare beauty." He tilts your face this way and that to admire his own handiwork. You refuse to look at him.
His voice turns cold at your lack of a response. "Today, I will be meeting with a few underlings and dealing with them accordingly. Your duty," he forces you to meet his gaze, "is to sit there and serve me as needed." He pulls away from all contact with you, "I assure you, it will be nothing you can't handle. Now, if you will?"
He gestures to an area beside his throne where a small chair has been placed against the wall. You slowly walk over and take a seat, staring straight ahead. He does the same, and you get a twinge of fear being so close to him. Your face from where you sit is only about a foot from his elbow – the perfect striking distance if he wanted to hurt you. You'd rather be on the other end of the room cowering in the shadows than anywhere near him.
He snaps his fingers. The sound of it resonates through the spacious chamber, almost deafening against the silence.
In small groups of three or four, people begin to spill in through the large brass doors. With no instruction from their King, twenty men in black suits stand in rows along the length of the court – one on each side – and the other men and women crowd between them, keeping their distance from the throne. From either fear or respect, you can't be sure. Guthrie enters and stands still in the back of the crowd, staring at you with a withering gaze.
Crowley grapples with a lengthy list of names in his hands. Dragging his finger down the list, he taps a name and reads it out loud.
"Jethro," he calls to the mass of demons. Slowly, they separate and a dark-haired young man approaches the throne wearing a clean grey suit and red tie. He holds his shoulders back and head high, but the crinkle of his brow and the fear in his eyes show you how nervous he really is. He bows low and rises to meet his King.
Crowley eyes him with a blank face. It scares you that you can't read his face, because when he decides to turn that face to you, you worry you won't know what is coming. Just like you've got no idea what he has in mind for Jethro.
"It says here you are in charge of gathering souls. Tell me, last month you collected on how many contracts?"
The demon swallows hard and stammers out, "Forty-seven."
Crowley raises his eyebrows "Forty-seven? That's impressive. A much higher average than those of your compatriots." He watches the man squirm under his gaze and you catch a faint smile play on the corner of Crowley's mouth. "Well done. You have done right by me, and I commend you for it. I promote you to the crossroads. Speak with Guthrie on your way out for a pending list of contracts and training requirements." He dismisses the man with a wave of his hand. The man's face lightens and his shoulders sag with relief.
Crowley consults his list again and calls out for the next subject. "Ah . . . Patrick," he says dryly. The young man is replaced by a fiery redhead in a hoodie and worn jeans. He strolls up to the throne, pausing only briefly to glance at you and wink. Your face twists into a grimace of disgust and indifference.
The redhead smiles up to his leader. "Yes, my King?" he asks without bowing, never dropping that cocky smirk. You chance a glance at Crowley to see that he is frowning deeply. To be denied the respect that is due him must really piss him off. Somewhere deep in your mind, you make a note to remember this.
Crowley clears his throat and stares down at his papers, pretending to ignore the insult. "Patrick," he sighs, "as it says here, you are in control of a number of contracts, but several have gone over their due date. Why?" He looks up to stare down his nose at the demon. Patrick's smirk drops as he begins to defend himself, but Crowley cuts him off. "—Because someone of your position and esteem should not be letting something so demeaning slip by him. Explain yourself . . . now."
Patrick stutters, "I – I've had a lot on my plate . . . and the demons under my control have been slacking. This is not my fault! You should be asking them why they aren't doing their jobs. Not me!" His eyes dart around wildly, looking for an answer or maybe another excuse.
Crowley shakes his head. Then, he begins to shout; his voice filling the chamber. "Here it tells me you have one contract that is seven months overdue. This is unacceptable. Delegates of Hell must be nothing if not brutally punctual. At. All. Times! I will not tolerate any further delays from you or any others!" The echo from his voice circles around everyone and dies away to leave a deathly silence. "You decide."
The silence stretches on and you look up to see that he is staring at you. And so is every other demon in the room. "What?" you ask.
Crowley turns in his chair to address you fully. "Decide this man's fate. You determine whether he lives or dies. I will not profit or be bereaved of business either way, so I leave the choice to you." He gestures to Patrick and then passes his hand back to you, symbolically delivering this demon's life into your hands. "Shall I end his miserable existence, or demote him so low that he would wish I had been considerate enough to do so?"
You turn from Crowley to Patrick to the rest of the demons. Why is Crowley giving you this power? Patrick is obviously lazy in his duties, but is it worth killing over? Can you be responsible for his death? You ponder for a moment if you would lose any sleep over the death of a lousy demon, and decide that you probably would, because that is just something you would be likely to do. The decision is not one you would normally make, you know this, but for some reason you can't see yourself condemning him to death. You can't say those words.
Your gaze meets Crowley's, and he has a strange lightness to his eyes like he already knows what you've decided. You give a heavy sigh before you say softly, "Demote him."
"Why?" he asks with a grin.
You stare up at Crowley with a frown. Closing your eyes and turning away to face the stone floor. "Killing him won't make him learn from his mistakes. Let him remember what is at stake when he doesn't do his job."
Crowley nods, satisfied with your answer. "Excellent choice." He gestures to Patrick with an impatient wave of his hand and two of the demons in the rows come up and grab hold of Patrick's arms. Patrick fights and yells – cursing Crowley and cursing you, throwing slurs out at everyone – but before they drag him through the courtroom doors, he sends you a death glare that chills your very soul. Where they took him, you have no idea, and you don't particularly care. What's done is done; you've made your choice.
Crowley sits up straight in his chair. "Next . . ." he calls out amongst the crowd.
