Chapter 14 - Damn You to Hell

A/N: Thank you to love the world and TaleHeart for their reviews!

Crowley leaned against Sam's dresser, crossing his arms as he watched the younger Winchester sleep. Dean had agreed that Crowley should get back to Hell, and then the four of them had gathered in the kitchen to eat the pizza he'd nicked from a very hairy and very angry Sicilian man. It had been a subdued affair, with Dean and Sam still working off the tension from their earlier fight and Crowley being distracted by thoughts of his impending return to Hades.

Truthfully, he could've left at that very moment, but with Sam's condition worsening by the hour, he didn't want to leave him alone overnight, especially when he expected another attack would be coming soon. Even once he returned to Hell and business as usual, he fully intended on popping in to watch over Sam as much as his schedule allowed.

They were connected. What that connection meant, he wasn't sure, but he'd be damned if he let the Winchester die on his watch. There were no guarantees that Sam's death would mean that the blood connection would be dissolved, after all, it could realistically end up killing him as well. He hated that he found himself caring more as to whether Sam lived or died than whether he himself kept breathing.

It had been four days, and the guilt that had boiled in his stomach that night that Sam at least partially healed his black essence still dominated him in the moments where he didn't have something to distract him. The memories, the memories of both his life as a human and as a demon, they clawed at his mind and heart, like wild animals trying to escape from a cage. He'd never even realized how much he'd lost, how much he'd blocked out, how much he hadn't even thought worth remembering...

He couldn't understand his humanity. It felt so strange, so foreign. Like something writhing inside of him that didn't belong, that made him feel things he could barely comprehend. He wasn't a fan of the crying, either. It had been a constant struggle not to start sobbing like a bloody child since Sam had almost cured him.

The demon part of him wanted to kill Sam while he slept, then move on and gut Dean and Castiel, then finish off by spiriting Kevin away along with the angel tablet to uncover any secrets that it may hold. That was the part of him that was familiar, the part of him that he understood. The dark, twisted monster that had suffered in Hell for centuries. That had been tortured on the rack, and then put souls on with sadistic glee.

The Hell memories were some of the worst. While the recollection of his own torture was massively unpleasant, when his torturer had broken him, when he'd finally started putting souls on the rack himself... words couldn't describe...

He shuddered. His torturer had always said that they had big plans for him.

He felt the knife rake up his arm, taking a healthy amount of skin with it and leaving nothing but muscle and tendon in its wake. He threw his head back and let out a blood curdling scream. The demon in front of him merely smiled a small, almost innocent smile before moving the long curved knife to his other arm.

"It's all part of the process, Fergus," the demon said. "You have great potential. It just needs to be bled out of you."

"P-please... please s-stop," he whimpered, a tear trailing down his face. It was endless pain, endless torture. He was going mad, he was forgetting things... forgetting who he was. Who he used to be before the hounds had dragged him down.

"Oh, I do like it when you beg," the demon whispered against his ear. He felt the cold blade of the knife touch his unscathed arm.

Little had he known that even then he was being groomed to be a Crossroads demon, to be Lilith's lieutenant both in Hell and on Earth. He had been expected to play a role in the apocalypse from the beginning. It was almost funny, in a fucked up way. They'd never thought he'd turn on them, not for a second. Their mistake had cost them dearly. Even Hell's finest couldn't turn him into a simpering lackey, ready to obey their every command.

That was the first time he'd aligned himself with the Winchesters, the first time he'd worked with them to save the world. If the opportunity presented itself, he would do what needed to be done to take down Xaphan. Although he was more worried about Abaddon at the moment, maintaining his rule of Hell wouldn't mean much if Xaphan destroyed everything up top.

Sam tossed in his sleep, whimpering slightly. Crowley's eyes went to the boy, watching him carefully. A few seconds passed before Sam made the whimpering noise again. He flipped onto his back. With his enhanced vision, Crowley could see through the darkness and spot how tightly shut Sam's eyes were, how his lips were drawn back in a grimace. As he went to move towards the bed, he felt a stabbing pain in his forearms.

Oh hell, not again.

The agony hit him harder than ever before, sending him to his knees. Sam bolted up in bed, gasping as orange light flooded the bedroom. Crowley balled his hands into fists, leaning his forehead against the floor as his body shook violently. The trials scalded through his body, burning him from the inside out. White light flashed in his vision, and he was worried that he might pass out.

Even though Sam was only a few feet from him, when the younger Winchester screamed, it sounded like it came from miles away. A growl was building in his throat, something like the sound of a wounded feral animal. Lines of pain surged through his body, eviscerating every thought. Even with Crowley's remarkable pain threshold, it was overwhelming.

Then, it was over, gone as if it had never hurt at all. He collapsed to the ground, letting out a breathy sigh of relief. After a few moments of gathering himself, he pushed himself up, running a hand through his hair. He gulped, eyes darting to Sam, who was curled in the fetal position on his side, his head tucked between his knees.

"Sam?" Crowley managed. "Sam, are you alright?" He briefly thought of how it seemed odd to call the hunter by his actual name.

"Bathroom," Sam coughed. Crowley went to the younger Winchester's side, turning him over. Sam groaned. His long chestnut mane was plastered to his face and neck with sweat, and Crowley was fairly sure that he saw tears in his eyes. Blood trailed out of the side of the boy's mouth. This was the worst attack yet.

"Come on," Crowley said. "Let's get you up." He put a hand on Sam's back and raised him into a sitting position. He hooked a hand under his legs and helped swing them over the side of the bed.

"C-can't walk..."

"It's alright. I've got you." He put his hands on both of Sam's shoulders, and teleported them to the bathroom. He supported Sam so he wouldn't collapse as soon as his feet hit solid ground. Crowley carefully lowered him to the cool tile floor. Sam's hands immediately went for the toilet seat, gripping either side as he vomited the contents of his stomach into it, his head obscured by the porcelain.

For the next hour, Crowley sat next to Sam, trying to block out the sounds of his nausea. His hand rested on the hunter's shoulder the entire time. Finally, Sam sagged, dragging his arm across his mouth. "Think I'm done," he murmured.

"Back to bed, then?"

Sam nodded. Crowley transported them back to Sam's bedroom. Sam fell back onto his bed, groaning as he bunched a pillow up and rested his head on it. Within five minutes, his snores filled the room, and Crowley relaxed. He returned to his silent vigil, losing himself in thoughts as dark as the room around him.

Around ten, Sam began to toss and turn, indicating that he was bound to wake up soon. Crowley decided that it was high time he took his leave. He straightened his suit jacket, deciding he would stop at his compound on Earth before returning to his quarters Downstairs. Shake down his minions for some info before he went back, find out what the hell was happening with Hell.

He thought of his mansion on the outskirts of Santa Fe, the home he had acquired after Lucifer's fall. He blinked out of existence before reappearing in what was supposed to be his study.

It wasn't his study any longer. The first thing he smelled was smoke - thick, acrid, and choking. He turned slowly in a circle, taking in what used to be his home. He stood on charred floor boards, and he felt the hot New Mexico sun beating on his neck. It only took him an instant to realize that the entire manor had been burned to the ground. The roof was completely gone, and almost all of the walls had collapsed. Small flames still flickered here and there, but it appeared that most of the fire had died away. He looked down at the piles of ash that clung to his Italian loafers.

"How?" he whispered, entirely to himself.

He coughed against the smoke that threatened to smother his vessel's lungs. He walked through the burnt out carcass of the mansion, trying to get himself clear of the smoke. He felt tears burning in his eyes, which he privately hated himself for... but this was his home. He'd had it tailored to his custom tastes. Everything from the liquor cabinet in his study to the one of a kind Ottoman in his living room. He'd gone from a shack in Nevada to a home that almost matched the grandeur of his quarters he used to have in Kansas... before Lucifer's loyalists had burned it to the ground and eaten most of his staff.

Apparently, it was happening all over again. He turned the sorrow inside of him into something more comprehendible - anger - and with a flash of rage sent a fireball into a pile of debris, lighting it up like a torch. At least he was getting his powers back to full throttle.

He was surprised to hear a groan from the pile he had just lit up. Eyebrows raising, he waved a hand and quenched the fire. A survivor? Another groan, louder this time, and some of the detritus shifted. Crowley quickly sent the rubble flying with another gesture. Several bodies became visible, one of which was moving, albeit slowly.

Crowley detected demonic influence on the man. Question was, was it one of his men, or one of the demons (he could only assume that demons were responsible for this) who had attacked his compound? The demon lifted his head. His face was caked in blood, but Crowley could make out recognizable features.

"You," he said, tilting up the demon's chin. He blinked up at Crowley with hazy blue eyes. Crowley recognized him now. One of the demons who had guarded the wrought iron gates to his little slice of Heaven... or Hell, rather. "You're one of my grunts, aren't you?"

The demon nodded dimly, pushing himself up on his hands and knees. The suit he wore was caked in ash and soaked through with his vessel's blood in quite a few places. "Y-yes..."

"What's your name?" Crowley asked as he helped the demon to his feet. Before, he couldn't be bothered to remember half of the names of the demons who worked under him. He was the King of Hell, after all. Big rolodex. The survivor spat a clump of blood at his feet, and Crowley's lip curled.

"Laharl," he croaked. "Name's Laharl." The demon shuddered, turning his head to take in the destruction around him. He gripped at his left arm, which looked to be almost severed in half.

"Tell me what happened here," Crowley commanded, his voice deceptively soft. "Everything."

"There were hundreds of them," he began, and Crowley jerked his head towards the blackened grounds, wanting to move out of the remnants of the mansion. Laharl followed dutifully behind. "They were... they were from deep in the Pit. You could tell it was their first time on Earth."

"Must've escaped from the devil's gate that opened in Tombstone," Crowley theorized. "Go on."

"A lot of them had angel blades," he said. "They were well-armed. Killed everyone who didn't smoke out fast enough. When they first burst in... there was a demon in a hot female meat suit in the lead."

"Red hair?" Crowley asked sharply.

"No, no. Brown. Long. She had an English accent, I don't know if that was her or the chick she was riding. I think she was newborn, the way she tore apart..." He broke off, gulping. "It was bloody. Bloodiest fight I've ever seen. Half of the other guards were red splatters on the wall when they lit the place up."

"You fought then?"

"Valiantly, if I do say so myself. Not that it made much difference. They wiped the floor with us, boss."

Crowley sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair, tousling it. They had finally cleared the destroyed mansion now, and were moving through the grounds. He didn't know where they were walking. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"Yeah. The newborn, she said that Abaddon sends her regards, and to say that you should consider this your official dethroning." He grimaced. "She must've meant the Knight, right? But I thought she disappeared back in the fifties?"

"She's back," Crowley said shortly. "Dethrone me? She thinks she can do that just by going pyro? Nuts at my pay grade don't crack that easily."

"I don't know boss, that's just what she said." Laharl glanced over his shoulder at the smoking ruins. "What should I do now?"

Crowley bit the inside of his lip. An excellent question. "I have a safe house in Nevada, five miles outside of Birchview. Little shack, condemned, but you'll be able to see the protective sigils on the windows. Hide there, heal, and await further instructions. Also..." He looked the demon over. "Good job at not getting slaughtered."

Laharl nodded, a little unsure. "Uh, thanks, boss."

"Wait!" Crowley exclaimed before the demon could disappear. "What of Aziraphale?"

Laharl frowned. "I don't know what happened to him." Crowley cursed softly.

"Fine. Go on, then." Laharl nodded once more before blinking out. Crowley sighed, sliding his hands into his pockets. Even as a full demon, he'd enjoyed Aziraphale's company... even if he could be a little high maintenance on occasion.

He decided that he might as well try to find him. He cleared his throat. "Aziraphale!" His voice echoed momentarily, and then was followed by silence. He feared the worst until he heard something. A faint meow, carried on the wind. Crowley made a t-t-t-t-t sound, snapping his fingers.

Covered in soot and looking none too pleased, Aziraphale emerged from the ruins. In spite of his disappointment at the destruction of his home, he was relieved to find that his cat had survived. The plump gray and white cat made a beeline for him, meowing pitifully. Crowley carefully picked up the feline, running a hand along his spine.

"Oh, hush. You're lucky you're not a charcoal briquette right now," he told the cat, who meowed plaintively. "I'm going to have to leave you here for a bit," he explained, placing Aziraphale back down on the ground. "I'm Hell-bound at the moment, and I have a feeling you wouldn't like it down there." He patted the cat on the head. "Back in a mo."

He closed his eyes and focused his energies, gathering the power it would take to go to the throne - the actual Black Throne of Hell, the one made out of thousands of charred human bones that sat in the center of the Ninth Circle. He'd sat on it only once, and that had been when he claimed Hell for himself after Lucifer's fall. If he was being dethroned by Abaddon, then she would most likely be there.

He could hear ear piercing screams echoing around him. They didn't bring him the same pleasure that they used to. He smelled burning flesh and decay. Yes, he was in Hell. He opened his eyes. He was in a cavern made of volcanic rock, surrounded by a mote of lava that bubbled viscously. Cages on pulleys held unfortunate prisoners that were dipped into the lake every few seconds.

He'd tidied up Hell when he'd taken control, all new souls going in the endless line, but he hadn't messed with the Circles. The ones where demons almost as old as Lilith herself honed their craft of soul torture. The Circles were bloody, dark places, the deepest recesses of the Pit. It had never bothered him before, being down here, but now it made his stomach flip unpleasantly. He looked pointedly away from the burning souls. The sole entrance to the Cage was also in the Ninth Circle, underneath the Black Throne.

He looked up at his throne, glistening obsidian in the eerie light of the cavern. Two people stood directly in front of it. One was Abaddon, grinning at him like he was the funniest thing she'd ever seen, and the other was a tall man with short cropped black hair and dark blue eyes. Crowley narrowed his eyes, and he detected what the man truly was... an angel. He could see the halo, now, though the gold of the circle was ringed with black. A fallen angel, he mentally corrected himself.

"Crowley," Abaddon greeted, striding forward. "Glad you could make it! We've been waiting for you."

"What are you playing at, Abaddon?" His eyes slid to the mysterious angel. "Getting on your knees for angels now, are we?"

"Oh, that's right! You haven't been formally introduced." Abaddon's grin widened. "I'd like you to meet my new business associate, Xaphan. Maybe you've heard of him?"

Bollocks.