His world is crimson and scarlet and blood and that’s how he likes it. None of the worries about dark or light or good or evil. All that matters is the red.
Velvety like a perfect rose, rich like fine wine, bright like strawberries, tinged with fire like rubies, dark and almost black like old blood. He loves it in all its variation. Crowley’s world is more monotone than Moose’s and more vibrant that Squirrel’s, because red is infinite and that’s how he likes it.
Where Dean sees white, Crowley sees glowing red like iron in a forge; cherry bright, searing hot, and branding anyone fool enough to touch. Sam’s gray world becomes wet and sticky and rare and pressing in all around consecrated, sweet, pure until the only red Crowley sees is blood and that’s how he likes it.
When they threaten his bones the crimson is sharp and cold and he almost chokes on it, and then the cure that almost blotted out the red and left his world anemic and pink for months may be the most unforgivable thing the Winchester boys ever did to him and maybe that’s why he led Dean to Cain. And Cain is the red of staring at the sun with eyes closed tight, painful and searing and just waiting for a crack to slip through, blinding. Dean as his all the black and white left behind for a wash of decadent red is the throbbing vermillion of a hard cock, and that’s how he likes it.
When Crowley slips into a meatsuit and would that he could have kept Moose, big and powerful, just for play it’s invisible scarlet, infrared, but he can feel it stroking him and it’s so good so hot he nearly comes and that’s how he likes it.
Rowena is the sickening mottled red of a corpse flower, and she almost erases the Winchester reds, until a moment in a wrecked bar and the tired, aching red of a baboon’s ass grants him clarity like a red comet and kicking Mother out is the satisfying red of a virgin’s innocence, and that’s how he likes it.
Crowley drinks and breathes and fucks and kills in a world of crimson, and that’s how he likes it. And someday, someday... everything black and white and in between will run red, and those damn Winchesters will learn to love it too.