A/N: This one's for the awesome LilyBolt, who wanted me to write from Crowley's POV. Another challenge but more than willing to take it! A big thanks to all those who read/follow/favorite/review my work, it means so much to me! And as always, I don't own Supernatural, just borrowing the boys for entertainment purposes.
Evening shadows sink beneath the horizon and the tiny sanctuary is soon engulfed in darkness. Alone and securely tied to this goddamned uncomfortable chair, Crowley has all the time in the world to think: a pastime which under normal circumstances the charismatic King of Hell would have enjoyed. He had sadistically delighted in coming up with creative methods of torture, physical or otherwise, and had secretly been rather jealous when the archangel Gabriel (well, at the time disguised as the Trickster) had arranged for that damn Winchester asswipe to die all those times, a la Groundhog Day. In fact, it was during one of those rare moments of peace, sitting before the fire with a glass of brandy and a particularly aggressive Beethoven piece blasting from his speakers (surround sound, amazing subwoofer, only the best for the King of Hell, after all) where Crowley had conceived the idea to hunt down the people the Winchesters had saved, every last one of them, only to systematically kill them off, one by one. Cruel? Of course. And he had delighted in every minute of it.
But had was the operative word at the moment. Because now, squirming against his bonds and still frozen within the intricate devil's trap the Winchesters had erected, the suave demon was slowly beginning to feel that glee he had once experienced at the thought of torture slowly ebb away, like the outgoing tide. With each injection by Sam (who looked more and more like death warmed over, a thought which, to Crowley's horror, actually bothered him) the cocky demon could feel more and more frightened, upset, empathetic… human.
"Bloody hell," he had muttered when he had first felt the transformation. Initially Crowley had not been scared; in fact, he was still his usual arrogant self, throwing witty insults to the younger Winchester as effortlessly as he had before. "Looks like the smart half of the Hardy Boys is looking a little worse for the wear, huh Moose?" He had summoned for help practically as soon as he had been captured but the bitch Abaddon had instead betrayed him, demanding, of all things, his place as ruler of Hell. Not exactly what Crowley had had in mind. And now, with each passing hour and subsequent injection of this "demon cure" he could feel something change within him, rushing through his veins like a drug. A humanity he had never experienced since those long ago days as a Scotch tailor named Fergus MacLeod. The witty insults which had at once flown a mile a minute were now few and far between as the threat of becoming "cured" was more than just a figure of speech. In fact, now he had resorted to begging (he, the King of Hell, begging for mercy of all things!) when Sam had finally come to and righted him back in the newly repainted devil's trap. No doubt in a few minutes he'd administer yet another dose of Demon Cure-All.
"Are you joking?!" Trying to keep some of the fire in his voice, but it was obvious that the one all-powerful demon was fighting to keep his fear in check. "I just saved your life!" To be honest, it had been the other way around, Sam had been the one to torch Abaddon as she had been beating him to a bloody pulp, but desperate times call for desperate measures, as the saying goes.
Come on, Crowley, dammit, you're the KING OF BLOODY HELL! Jolly Green here wants to make you into a goddamned pussy! Fight back you spineless…
Sam's hollow laugh interrupted the inner dialogue and Crowley looked up (did he just look at him meekly? Goddamnit!). "Seriously?"
Ok, time for another last ditch attempt to weasel his way out of this. "Seriously? Me, seriously? We just shared a foxhole, you and I. We beat back the Tet Offensive, outrun the -the Rape of Nanking together! And still you're gonna do me like this?!" He was rambling now, panic in his eyes (well, the eyes of the poor sucker he was currently possessing, who was about to become human again in no time flat if this monstrosity continued to happen. As if in answer to his thoughts, Sam jammed another injection into his neck and Crowley let out a yell of agony. Couldn't Moose be just a little more gentle with the jabbing, for godssake?
He could hear himself rambling again, something about HBO dramas and brotherhood. Though even in the back of his mind, he knew that his latest attempt to free himself would be a colossal waste of time. Crowley may be a demon, but he knew about brotherhood, and that the only one Sam Winchester would even remotely consider in that category was his own brother. Not he. Not the one who just 24 hours earlier had been toying with those numbskulls by systematically killing off their "success stories" one by one. Not the man (well, er, demon) who had killed Gigantor's one way ticket out of Purgatory , or even the one who made people uncomfortable with a simple snap of a camera phone. In fact, this was now the demon who was suddenly feeling rather guilty for those transgressions. And the King of Hell sure as fuck did not want to.
"…I just want to be loved."
Crowley seemed just as surprised as Sam when those words slipped from his mouth. The younger Winchester looked at him with a look of confusion and the demon (former demon?) grew silent. The kid looked like Hell warmed over actually. Kinda feel bad for him.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
The next time Sam injects him, there is no pain. Instead, Crowley smiles.