When a human soul freshly enters Hell, the most daunting thing they will hear is the screaming. The screaming will catch their attention, they will look, and they will see the most terrible things happening to people. Drilling machines going through bone, securing peoples limbs tightly to the walls. People writhing madly in colossal frying pans, every now and then being turned over by equally colossal spatulas as if they are sausages at the monthly neighbourhood barbecue. People screaming themselves hoarse, as demons pull their muscles from their bones fibre by fibre. Soon enough those new souls will find themselves at the rack (or on the walls, or in the frying pan) and the screams of others are forgotten as they are drown out by the soul's own, but every moment the pain fades away the screams will come up again, and they will look again and their hearts will fill with frightful dread and repulsion. That is what Hell is like, for years upon years until the soul eventually opts to take up the knife themselves and they learn to delight in the screams they manage to wring out of their victims.
That is a soul freshly entering Hell. For Meg, a demon older than she bothers to remember, the screaming is mere background rustle.
For a demon as old as her fear has long ago ceased to be any cause of suffering. Yes, she still felt dread (when Margaret suggested they pump her intestines full with boiling tar), but there was nothing these no-bodies could think off that she hadn't done at least twenty times before – with much more flair, she might add. But that was just the thing: the demons torturing her were far younger and less experienced than her; in any Hell that was anywhere near what it used to be – what it was supposed to be! – this should be the other way around. She should be gouging out the eyes of this riff-raff, she should be rearranging the bones of these flees, these insipid, incapable, paltry excuses of demonkind.
It was humiliating, to be held captive and tortured by demons possessing not even a tenth of her wit and power; pathetic what was left now of her once glorious Hell. Hell had become as much as a shell as Heaven was, and Crowley was the King and prime example of the underworld's degradation.
As the brittle bones in her feet broke once again and acid and sulphur ate her skin, she wished nothing more than to be able to literally tear that smug smile from Crowley's face. Oh, how she would have liked to have been the one to initiate Crowley to Hell's ways back when he was still a fresh soul on the rack. Sadly enough she had never known him before he'd become Lilith's boy-toy, but she still liked to imagine he had wept like an infant when he was first in Hell.
Crowley, meanwhile, sighed contently. "Hm, I could listen to her trying not to scream for centuries," he lamented, "don't you agree, Patty?"
Patricia, the King's current favourite and personal assistant, nodded stiffly in response, and Meg was actually annoyed the woman was not more enthusiastic about her torture. What for was she a demon if she did not even enjoy a bit of squirming and bloodshed?!
Though her eyes teared up from the raging pain assaulting her nerves, Meg had no difficulty showing Crowley a broad, languid grin. "I hope you were not waiting for it, for your sake. It can take a while to make a girl scream, when you are a shitty demon."
"Oh sweetheart, don't you know: all demons are shitty. That's kind of our thing." Crowley replied conversationally. "Besides, I can assure you: your boyfriend has been screaming his heart out for… how many years has it been for you since you came back here? 40? 50?"
Castiel. Even as one of the oldest demons left in this world she understood that the angel did not belong here, after everything he had done and lost in order to save humanity – if with humanity one meant Dean Winchester. Even she could see that Castiel was one of the purest and most selfless creatures in existence; if anyone had bothered to ask her, she would have told them that Dean did not deserve the angel's devotion.
But just or not, Crowley's demons had captured Castiel after they'd captured her, while the both of them were at SucroCorp putting their asses on the line to help the Winchesters kill the Leviathan and save the planet, self-sacrificing martyrs the two of them were.