"Oh, my, my, what have you been up to while I've been locked away?"
Crowley had plenty of potential answers to that, but, at the moment, the only appropriate one was to turn around and see who was addressing him. The outward appearance wasn't familiar: the girl was tall for her age, and she couldn't have been more than sixteen, wearing chemically straightened hair and a modest uniform with knee socks and black Mary Janes — but Crowley saw right through that façade even before she showed the whites of her eyes. She held her head higher than the average fifteen-year-old girl, even the average fifteen-year-old girl of San Francisco private schools, and the casual, beguiling slouch to her shoulders had been perfected over the course of millennia.
And even without those outward shows, no one turned a smile quite to him like she did — no one ever had, and Crowley doubted that anyone ever would. "Wearing a hunter doesn't suit you, sweetheart," Lilith purred, smirking at him, revealing the glitter of the girl's braces. She let her whites slip back to the girl's natural eyes, wide, brown, and (most likely against the girl's will) glinting with a come hither edge.
"Well, desperate times and all that," Crowley explains by way of not explaining anything. He sauntered toward her, idly turning the hunter's Swiss Army pocketknife over in his fingers. "I had important Deals to close, and this moron left home without all of his anti-possession amulets — and of course it helps that he looks respectable enough to trust with possession of one's soul."
He paused once he got close enough to feel the chill emanating off of her, and with a fond smile, he looked down at Lilith. Even his own cold fingers seemed warm compared to her freezing skin. Behind her mask, he could see the remnants of the eons she'd spent alive — torturing, being tortured, the separation from Lucifer that killed her even as she clung to Crowley (and even now, as she snaked her arms around his shoulders and pressed into him). She leaned up to kiss him first, standing on her meat-suit's toes to reach him, and in the soft brushes of her lips down his, he felt their history welling up — how she'd found him down in London, taught him magic, and how they'd made an infernal life together. Briefly, he reciprocated, and nibbled on her lower lip; pulling back, he brushed his thumb down her cheek.
"So, love — when, pray tell, did you claw your way out of the Pit? Last I checked, you were neck-deep in chains."
"Just now," she said, ghosting her lips down his cheek without pausing for a kiss. "Well, not long ago. After Azazel's specialest special child cracked open the Devil's Gate."
"And where is old Yellow Eyes, then?"
"Dead." She said this without any adornment, just a shrug and a smirk that looked a little sad. "The cute Winchester shot him with the Colt — not without some help from Daddy, but still." And then, before Crowley had the chance to commiserate — Oh, those boys are such troublesome little pains in the ass, aren't they? If only we could do without them… — she kissed him again, open mouthed and deep. Barely moving away from him, she whispered, "Do you like this girl? I saw her and thought she'd make for such a nice present. Considering how we'll win the planet. …You haven't outgrown virgin sacrifices on me, have you? …Or are you too busy for me these days?"
Crowley said nothing to her about what they'd need to do with the Colt — its one bullet had been wasted, but it could still pose a threat — he just let a growl slip from his throat as he pulled her into him. "Well, bollocks to the work," he said. "Let the world burn — we can clean it all up later."