Olivia ran down the road, a cramp growing in her calf. The elderly couple a block over had said they thought they saw a dark-haired woman leading Aaron into a building farther down the street. She couldn't, in good conscience, not at least check the warehouse for him; she was, after all, supposed to pick the five-year-old up from daycare.

Finally, she reached the building. She had never been inside it, even though it was only three blocks down from her apartment complex. Grabbing the large metal handle of the door, she found the door was much heavier than it first appeared. After struggling for a moment with its weight, Olivia opened the door to see a very peculiar sight: a large octagonal table, with a greenish-blue light under its glass surface sat in the center of the room; two women and four men were seated at it, all looking terrified. The woman with brown hair braided down her back was the only one who noticed Olivia's arrival; she gave her a slight shake of her head then lowered her eyes back to the table.

"Olivia!" Aaron appeared, apparently emerging from under a nearby desk and hurried over to her. Olivia was caught off-guard by the child's arms around her thighs in a hug – she had only babysat Aaron once before.

"Are you okay, Aaron?"

He nodded then began tugging on her shirttail, his eyes locked on something behind her.

Olivia turned quickly, but she was not fast enough to dodge the blade that sliced her side. Luckily, she had moved speedily enough to avoid being stabbed; the blade only slit her flesh, although quite deeply, rather than being buried in her waist. The pain was still excruciating, however, and she fell to floor, her hands and knees hitting the hard, dirty surface simultaneously. Olivia looked up at the man who had attempted to stab her; he was a muscly dark-skinned man with an angry face.

"What are you doing here?" the man demanded, "You were not here a moment ago. Who are you?"

"She's Olivia," Aaron said, "She's my sitter."

The man turned his glare to Aaron, then gave a swift backhand across his face, knocking Aaron to the floor in tears.

"Hey!" Olivia shouted at the man, "You can't do that!"

The man gave her a solid kick in the stomach in reply.

"What," a new, deeper, British, voice sounded from the edge of the room, "is all the ruckus?"

The overly muscled man gestured toward Olivia, "She was not to be here."

Olivia heard the sound of approaching footsteps; she felt movement next to her.

She flinched, expecting another blow.

"You've frightened her, Erik. What exactly do you think you're doing?" the new voice said. "You can't just stab anyone that pisses you off; that's not how we do things." Olivia felt a hand grasp her upper arm and she was pulled to her feet.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" the man, in a dark suit, asked.

"Olivia," she whispered, casting a nervous glance at Erik, the man who had stabbed her.

"And what are you doing here?"

"I was looking for Aaron," her words were barely audible, "What do you want with him?"

"Nothing, as it turns out; not a thing."

"Great," Olivia sighed, "So, then, can we go?"

"That is up to you," he frowned at her side, "However, it appears my oaf of an employee injured you."

"I'll go to the hospital," Olivia turned to leave, "Come on, Aaron."

"Really? You sure you want to do that? All the tedious paperwork; I can have you out of here in half an hour – you'll no doubt be at the hospital all night, and, frankly, I don't think you have that long. Half an hour, you'll be god as new."

"And how is that possible?"

"Want to find out?"

Olivia growled inwardly.

"Erik. Keep an eye on this lot. And the kid."

Olivia glanced hesitantly at Aaron.

"He'll be alright. I swear. Erik knows better than to disobey my orders twice," the man in the suit started toward a side door, "Come on. This way."

Olivia frowned. She did not trust this man. She shook her head, and went toward the door to exit the warehouse, holding her wounded side. She took the handle of the door in her hand and pushed. The handle felt wet. Confused, she looked at it, to see what was a shiny silver was now a deep red; she looked at her hand. It was covered in blood. For the first time, Olivia noticed the wet warmth of her shirt where she had been cut. It was spreading, and quickly; her brain was growing fuzzy and the walls began to fade out of focus. She wouldn't be able to make it to a hospital.

Olivia turned and headed back toward the door the man in the suit had disappeared into. Just a mere six steps back into the open area of the warehouse, Olivia felt her legs become jelly, and she collapsed.

"I told you that you wouldn't be able to make it to the hospital," the man in the dark suit was crouching next to Olivia.

"I guess you were right," Olivia said weakly.

"Shall I still heal this gash in your side?"

Olivia nodded. She tried to sit up but was too weak; she had apparently lost more blood than she had originally thought.

"Easy, now," the man said when Olivia tried once again to raise herself up off the floor. She feebly fell back onto the hard floor.

"Don't give up easy, do you?" He shook his head, signing. Then, he slid one hand under her upper back, and the other under her knees, and lifted Olivia up off the floor.

The woman with her hair in a braid stood, "Um, Miss, do you know who this man is - or, well, what he is? He's a demon; he brought us here to try to bully us into translating some scribbles on a rock."

"You," the man holding Olivia said to the woman, "Shut it."

He carried Olivia to the back room that he had previously disappeared into. Looking around, she saw that the small room was dimly lit, just a single chair in the center of the room. After placing her in the wooden chair, he turned his back to her. Olivia idly noticed that there were straps on the armrests of the chair - this should have alarmed her, but she felt too ill and weak for it to register much.

"This shouldn't take long," the man said, turning around to her. He snapped his fingers and a second chair appeared in front of the one Olivia was seated in. He spun the chair around, straddled the back of it, and sat facing her. He placed his hand over the wound in her waist, murmured several words under his breath, and Olivia felt the slash in her side close.

"Shirt's probably ruined," he said simply.

Olivia ignored the comment, "Was that woman…uh, is-is… are you a - a demon?"

"Afraid so…" He trailed off and there was a moment of uncomfortable silence, "But, that word, demon, it has such a negative connotation, doesn't it?"

"Well," Olivia replied, "being a demon isn't exactly a good thing."

"Valid point, but not all demons are bad," he stood.

"So, are you trying to tell me you're one of those that aren't bad?"

"I just healed your side, didn't I? I could've let you bleed out," he stated, "but I didn't; that's got to count for something."

"Okay, fair enough," Olivia gave a faint smile, "So who should I send the 'thank you' card to? You literally saved me from bleeding to death."

"Name's Crowley," he replied, "King of Hell."

Olivia made a thoughtful face, "The king…of…of – of Hell?"

"That's right."

"So, what, you just take poor folks hostage every day?" Olivia crossed her arms.

Crowley frowned, "No. No, that was just PR."

"Right," Olivia stood, getting a bout of severe lightheadedness as she did, "Well, on that note, I'll be leaving." She headed toward the door.

"What? No thanks for patching you up?" Crowley took a few steps in her direction.

Olivia turned, too quickly for recently having lost so much blood. She faltered, wobbling, "Right. Thanks."

""Perhaps you should sit for a while longer. You bled a terrible amount," Crowley suggested.

Olivia conceded, and returned to the chair, collapsing into it.

"There you go," Crowley said, "Orange juice?"

Olivia looked at him, "What?"

"If I recall correctly, orange juice should aid in your recovery," he sat in the other chair, once again straddling its wooden back, "Care to try?"

Shrugging, Olivia nodded, "Sure."

Crowley snapped his fingers and a glass of orange juice materialized in his hand.

Olivia gave him a baffled look of awe.

Holding it out to her, Crowley cleared his throat, "Problem?"

"What? No," Olivia blinked and outstretched her hand to take the glass from him, looking intently at his face, curious as to why he was staring at the floor next to her chair. "Thank you," she said, wrapping her hand around the large glass; unintentionally, her fingers brushed against his lightly. Crowley's eyes snapped to hers at this, almost as though he was offended at the touch, then as if she was a painting he was trying to find meaning in. He did not release his hold on the glass immediately.

Crowley cleared his throat, looking away, letting Olivia take the glass.

Olivia took several gulps of the acidic drink, her eyes watering as it burned on its way down her throat.

Keeping her eyes on Crowley, Olivia drank half of the juice before he noticed her looking at him.

"Yes?" he asked.

Lowering the drink, Olivia frowned, "What?"

"You were staring. Quite rude."

"I didn't mean to. Sorry. I was just thinking…" she trailed off, turning turned her gaze downward.

"Go on."

Olivia sighed, "Maybe you're right."

"Of course I am; that's generally the case," Crowley said. "But what specifically are you talking about?"

"Demons aren't all bad," Olivia shrugged, "I mean, you're obviously not."

"Come again?" Crowley narrowed his eyes.

Olivia huffed, "Like I said, you could have let me bleed to death; you didn't." She paused before adding, "Not just that, but, I mean, this," she held up her orange juice, "it's not only keeping me alive, but making me feel better. It's…you're – well, it's nice," she looked at him.

"I'm a regular hero," Crowley rolled his eyes, mocking her observation, "Orange juice and all."

Olivia stood and pushed the glass into his hand, marching toward the door, "You don't have to be that way. I was trying to give you a compliment. To tell you I really do appreciate it a lot. To say 'thank you'. For crying out loud!"

Crowley stood, and was right behind her in a flash. He grabbed her hand, keeping her from leaving the room, "Olivia."

Turning to look at him, offended and slightly miffed, Olivia pursed her lips.

"You're welcome," Crowley said.

Olivia sighed heavily then gave a faint smile.

"People don't generally thank me," he commented.

"Well, that's just bad manners."

"Then again," Crowley added, "I don't generally do things that deserve a 'thank you'. Hm." He moved his jaw to the side.

"But, you did," Olivia was suddenly very aware that he had not let go of her hand, "for me."

Crowley pressed his lips together and dropped Olivia's hand. Olivia thought she felt him give it a light squeeze before he let it go. She gave him a questioning look, which he replied to with a faint flicker of a smile.

"Right," Olivia said, "I should, uh, go." She awkwardly shook his hand and started to the door before turning back to him. She placed her hand on the front of his shoulder and leaned up to press her lips to his cheek. Crowley was obviously startled, remaining glued to the spot, cutting his eyes over to her.

"Thank you," she said softly, only inches away from his ear.

Apparently unfreezing, Crowley turned his head to face Olivia and he just looked at her for a moment. His eyes fell to her lips then returned to her eyes. Olivia felt her face grow hot with color.

Crowley's eyes flicked once more to her mouth and he leaned toward her.

A loud crash came from the main room of the warehouse. Crowley growled and rushed to the door.

He stuck his head out, "Bollocks."

Olivia frowned, "What? What's wrong?"

"Winchesters. Stay in this room," he said before leaving, closing the door behind himself.