He supposed he had died, once upon a time -- it was so long ago. So long ago. A tailor in Scotland, who sold his soul to a crossroads demon, born again in the racks of Hell. Endless torture and screaming and he had lasted so long before eventually giving into the pain.
Torture. It was a horrific business. Something reserved only for the most important of tasks. And, somewhere, in the fog that was oncoming mortal death, Crowley realized the hypocrisy in the action. How many monsters had he tortured, how many monsters had he murdered, sent to Purgatory on the wings of silver and electrocution and God knows what else. But that had been worth it. That had been for a greater purpose. That had been to open the goddamn doors of Purgatory and fix the world.
How incredibly naive and stupid, for Crowley to think he had managed to escape Death -- but no, that would be too kind. Eternal torment, that was what awaited Crowley, and it infuriated him, so much, because he had managed so many things, and here he was, on the floor, bleeding to death, like an animal.
And on the cusp of Death, when the blade, burning hot, severed the essential artery connected to his supposed-to-be-dead heart, Crowley choked on blood and the distinct taste of failure, because he was not supposed to die.
But death in how a demon was born was oddly poetic.
In tortured agonizing pain.
Exactly the way Crowley swore he would never die.
But it was on the cusp that something flickered in his eyes -- the tiniest look of recognition, the opening of his lips to say something, a word, but he didn't manage it before the last breath escaped in a gurgle.
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He supposed he had died, once upon a time -- it was so long ago. So long ago. A tailor in Scotland, who sold his soul to a crossroads demon, born again in the racks of Hell. Endless torture and screaming and he had lasted so long before eventually giving into the pain.
Torture. It was a horrific business. Something reserved only for the most important of tasks. And, somewhere, in the fog that was oncoming mortal death, Crowley realized the hypocrisy in the action. How many monsters had he tortured, how many monsters had he murdered, sent to Purgatory on the wings of silver and electrocution and God knows what else. But that had been worth it. That had been for a greater purpose. That had been to open the goddamn doors of Purgatory and fix the world.
How incredibly naive and stupid, for Crowley to think he had managed to escape Death -- but no, that would be too kind. Eternal torment, that was what awaited Crowley, and it infuriated him, so much, because he had managed so many things, and here he was, on the floor, bleeding to death, like an animal.
And on the cusp of Death, when the blade, burning hot, severed the essential artery connected to his supposed-to-be-dead heart, Crowley choked on blood and the distinct taste of failure, because he was not supposed to die.
But death in how a demon was born was oddly poetic.
In tortured agonizing pain.
Exactly the way Crowley swore he would never die.
But it was on the cusp that something flickered in his eyes -- the tiniest look of recognition, the opening of his lips to say something, a word, but he didn't manage it before the last breath escaped in a gurgle.