"Don't even bother, lads, this one's way out of your league."
Before they could even register whose voice it was, he brothers spun on their heels, Dean training the Colt directly at the speaker's head, Sam ready with Ruby's knife. Crowley was, as usual, singularly unimpressed. "Oh, come now, boys," he crooned in mock offense, "is that any way to treat an old friend? Especially when I've come all this way just to help you out."
Dean lowered the Colt slightly, but he wasn't about to let his guard drop completely. "Help? How?"
"How else? You blundering idiots have an unerring penchant for bulldozing your way into business that doesn't concern you," the demon retorted. "You need magic for your little quest, sure. Let me send you someone from downstairs - vindictive, devious - but predictable." Crowley returned the brothers' skeptical gaze with a placating one. "I can guarantee results with one of mine. This one, though…" The demon shook his head and tisked.
Dean's face scrunched into a frown. "Wait, you mean she's not one of yours?"
"Ooh, who's the bright one now, Moose?" Crowley scoffed, giving Sam a none-too-gentle jab in the ribs. "Face it, you two chuckleheads wouldn't know real magic if it bit you in the arse," Crowley drawled. "Look, demons deal strictly in blood magic. You know, loan out a few extra special talents, gather in a few souls. Exchanges, tit for tat. Honest living," he said, blithely waving away their scornful looks. "Wherever this one got her particular skill set, it wasn't us."
The brothers swiftly exchanged glances before turning to follow Crowley's gaze, casting a wary glare at the woman they'd been following. If they hadn't just seen what she'd done back at the warehouse, she would have looked completely normal – well, what the rest of the world considered 'normal'. But Sammy was right: there was something off about her, the way she had holstered that weird weapon of hers, completely relaxed, as if waving a stick in the air to put out a two alarm fire were the most ordinary thing in the world.
And now Sam had that look in his eye.
Dean grabbed his brother by the sleeve. "Whatever you're thinking, Sammy, just…no."
"I don't know, Dean," Sam countered, "it sounds like she could help. And at least it wouldn't be demon stuff – that can't hurt, right?" Sam's eyes pleaded his case.
His brother wasn't watching him at all; he still had his eyes trained on the door of the bar the witch had disappeared into. Dean's face was a mask, but one that was gradually evolving from stony to contemplative.
Crowley's expression briefly flickered with rage before returning to its usual sanguine, haughty aloofness. His tone, however, belied that calm facade. "What are going to do," he scoffed, primly cleaning one of his fingernails, "just walk up to her and ask if she wants to join your gang?"
Neither of the brothers was paying him any attention. They were too focused on their quarry.
Crowley grimaced, and shook his head. If nothing else, years in Hell had taught him to recognize a lost cause. "Trust me, boys," he said, "you're better off well away from her ilk." When this earned him no reply, he simply rolled his eyes. "Fine. If you must insist on following this route, I wash my hands of you," he said, and popped out of existence again.
That was just the push the Winchesters needed. This woman was a witch, and they had to find out if she'd help them. Dean gave a quick nod, and the brothers stalked into the bar after her.
