The slightly pretentious phrase “Hell’s Attar” was on a long list of possible titles I came up with years ago (circa 1999) and saved in one of my writing notebooks—it jumped right out at me the second I glanced through the four-columns-long list. And, of course, since I already visited with the Winchester clan, why not do my all-time favorite baddie and yet another resident of the SPN-verse—the one and only Crowley, King of Hell. “Hello, darlings.”
Day 3—5/11/15: “Imagine you’re looking through a collection of short stories. One of the titles catches your interest. That’s the story you want to read first. What might the title be? Invent a title that would make you want to read the story. Now, write a story to go with that title…”
Crowley relaxed on his throne, idly staring into space. Distantly, he could hear the cries of the tormented and smell the blood and fear. It pleased him to simply listen and daydream—though, as of late, his aborted roadtrip with the freshly demonized Dean Winchester had come to mind more and more often lately.
Oh, he had played it off that having Dean as a Knight of Hell made the lad more trouble than he was worth, but it wasn’t quite so. Yes, the shiny-newness of Dean’s damned soul had been quite a sight to see… but Dean would have also made quite the consigliere to Crowley’s dominion. No one would have dared cross the King of Hell with a Winchester at his side.
Yes, Crowley knew a thing or two about the importance of names. And the Winchester patronym had struck fear into many a demon’s little black heart over the past few years. Those boys were making quite an infamous name for themselves… and at so young an age, too.
But it wasn’t just the name; no, he’d seen both Squirrel and Moose fight. They struck quickly and without hesitation… though the poor giant baby with the puppy-dog eyes was more of a softy, more willing to hear the other side out and to spare the offender.
Darling Dean had a merciless streak about him. But that was why Crowley liked the boy. Mercy was for the conflicted and the weak.
They would have made quite the team: Dean Winchester, the most honoured and feared Knight of Hell since that angry ginger first slipped out of the muck, and Crowley, Lord and Master of the dark dominion.
He could almost smell the sweetness of the victory that would accompany such a diabolical pairing. Pity, he’d forgotten—never expect a Winchester to do the easy thing, or to play well with the supernatural beasties.
Such was life… but Dean would not remain his cleansed self for long. He was slipping again, becoming more violent, and it would only be a matter of time before the Mark of Cain would claim its due.
And what was time to the immortal sovereign of unholy legions?
Now, if he could only do something about Mummy Dearest. Her perfume was starting to put a too-sweet stench over the usual Hell-smell, and her presence in general was driving him quite mad.
But then, perhaps Squirrel could take care of that too, without his even asking. Mum was enough of a pain in the arse to warrant getting her head chopped off. Or maybe the lovely Samantha would do it, instead, if provoked far enough.
As the wheels within wheels slowly turned, inexorably moving his plans within plans forward, Crowley smiled.