Regulus knew he wasn’t a good guy. His soul wasn’t as pure as it used to be ; it was now corroded, withering off into the bottom of his gut until he had nothing ‘pure’ left inside of him, despite his family’s motto being ‘always pure.’ He was convinced after he turned 15, everything fell down in front of his eyes like crumbling statues, and he couldn’t pick up the pieces to glue it together again. So, he didn’t. He let it burn to the ground. He let his life burn to the ground.

Oh, but then he had to fucking die at 17. Maybe he should’ve seen it coming, and maybe he could’ve accepted it, but knowing damn well he was going to directly dive right into literal Hell (if he believed in it, which, he didn’t, but he still managed to make it there,) he didn’t quite know what ‘peace’ was yet. And that led him to being a demon. Not like he could help it — but someone saw him as a prodigy, and that’s exactly what he became. A cruel helper of sorts.

And he didn’t exactly hate being one. He got to torment souls still roaming Earth, scare them half — sometimes fully to death if he royally hated them, and so many other things. It wasn’t all that bad. Then again, he had this impending pit in his throat whenever he remembered how he got here. How he seemed to be so much worse than other souls that made it there to the point he was the one chosen.

He had one problem in the end. More so, problems seemed to have his ass, considering he could never catch a break. The gate to Hell opened one night, thousands of demons escaped — many attempted only to fail, and he, so happened to be alert of the lucky ones to escape. Except he was able to inhabit his own body (fuck if he knew how that happened), and, honestly, it seemed more like a blessing than a curse. Until the Winchester brothers decided to cause more bullshit across the world, and he somehow got sucked into it. All because he had the smallest sliver of empathy left in him from when he was alive and showed it for a split second.