“Oh, you’re right – just let me wave my magic wand and bibbity-bobbity boo the bastard away!” – Crowley, probably
Crowley’s version of spellcraft would be adapted to life on the road, to limited resources and patience, and indifference towards the craft of magic.
Given his history with witches, Crowley would not be disposed to intensely study or use magic. He would be adept at it only because of its usefulness to him and to the boys. And he would be hesitant about relying on it too heavily, preferring instead to use his wits to obtain his goals. Only when the circumstances required it, or it would have proven more efficient in hindsight, would Crowley bother to rifle through magical texts and lore for useful spells. And he would carry only the most basic of spell ingredients, preferring to use whatever came to hand at the time. There’s no time or interest for in-depth study of herbology or biology. His version of spellcraft would directly reflect the life of a demon-turned-demonologist on the road with a pair of flannelled hunters: straightforward, course, bare bones.
This grimy, practical sort of spellcraft would be lacking in dramatic flair. That sort of nonsense would be reserved for striking fear in an opponent, or delighting a layperson. No, Crowley’s sort of spellcraft – if it could even really be called that – would be brusque, irritated, and impatient. (Which might occasionally cause some mishaps. Oops.) And he would have little qualms about using spells or hex bags on victims or allies, if it moved the case along, or offered necessary protection, or avoided violence. For Crowley, hunting would be one small part of everything he and the Winchesters were attempting to accomplish, and individual cases – while worth their while – would still be somewhat of a nuisance. If magic was the quickest means of resolving a case, he’d make use of it, but never relish spellcraft for its own sake.
Crowley would askew most spell ingredients, be more comfortable with common components, use whatever came readily to hand on the road. Graveyard dust, chalk, the stub of a candle. He would carry a battered tin with the most basic of herbs, salt, and the like. No long hours spent over the mortar and pestle for him. His hex bags would be made of thin swatches of old flannel shirts and worn jeans that could no longer be patched, stained oil rags, and paper napkins collected from all the diners and coffee shops along the road. Along with his angel blade and the demon knife, Crowley would always carry a pocket knife, clean and well-sharpened, to slice a palm with. And needle and thread – not specifically for working magic, but one never knows when such things might come in handy.
He would also carry a flask and a lighter. Not a flask containing whiskey or tea. No, this flask would contain blessed water or holy oil, for spellcraft or expelling demons. All well and good, until one night he’d confuse that flask with his whiskey flask, not knowing he was taking a good, long pull of blessed water until it was too late. (Ouch.) To ensure against future mishaps, Dean would suggest “labelling the damned thing,” and Sam, in an attempt at still slow reconciliation, would commission a flask engraved with “Blessed Water: Do Not Drink, Idjit” on the leather encasement. For a while, Crowley would carry books of matches scavenged from motely motel rooms and beer halls. Then one day, in a grimy consignment shop that occasionally peddled supernatural trinkets, he’d come across a shiny, gleaming zippo lighter. Not a scratch on it. Salt and burn, he’d think ruefully. Crowley would carry it separately in its own pocket, where he could reach in, flick open and then snap shut the top. He would hold the lighter in his hand as he stared out the window on long drives, enjoying the sharpness of the sound it made, the way it would irritate Dean in the driver’s seat in front of him.
Crowley would keep a journal, too. Oh, not for magic or anything like that. No, the journal is entirely separate, and will be written about again, at another time. But he would keep a thin, flat notebook of a sort to scribble in. Half his spells would be frankensteined together from work by the grand masters of magic, and his notebook would be full of mad calculation and annotations. Crowley would otherwise prefer to write with ink pens, but – having learned a little something from the Russians – would carry only pencils, worrying them down to nubs with his frantic, irascible scribbling, as he cobbled together spells while wraiths and other threats raged around them.
Crowley would carry it all in a battered leather or canvas messenger bag, something that had seen plenty of wear and tear. The bag itself, in Crowley’s opinion, would be worth more than all the spell ingredients in his tin, and only slightly less than his engraved flask and angel blade. It would be the only bit of spellcraft he was proud of performing. He’d learned a thing or two from Mary Poppins as well – anything that could fit into the opening of the bag, the bag made room for inside. Entire libraries of lore could disappear into its depths, and be called forth by simply reaching inside. Weapons, medical supplies, supernatural artifacts, iron knuckles, summoning bowls, a change of clothes, car parts, packed lunches, once an entire elementary school class. All without adding an ounce of weight. It would be fair to say there would be a time or two that that bag, and what it contained, would save the world.
Crowley wouldn’t care much for spellcraft, and whether or not he was adept at it, whether or not he was a natural, wouldn’t be of much interest to him. What would matter is that magic would be one of the means by which Crowley felt like he was pulling his weight among the boys. One of the ways he contributed, made the world better, made himself of value. And on the very rare occasions another Winchester prank war broke out, would likely prove to be very useful indeed.
Thank you to @additionaladdams for suggesting a witch!Crowley mood board. As I tried to decide on what images to use, I began to think about how Crowley would use untraditional ingredients and implements for spellcraft that were better suited to life on the road and his own distaste for magic. And that led to all this wonderful character development, which gave me a great deal of insight for my Bergamot & Sulphur series, as well as my One of the Boys series. The bottomless messenger bag has been with me a very long time, well before I actually began to write spn fanfiction, and I’ve always imagined Crowley – as one of the boys – would utilize it. The bag actually has quite a bit of backstory that, like the journal mentioned above, I won’t bore you with here.
The non-quote at the top is what I imagine Crowley snarking back at the boys with after one of them suggests using magic to take out some opponent that they are ill-equipped to defeat. I think it sums up his opinion of spellcraft – and occasionally, the Winchesters – rather well.
