It occurred to me that I forgot to mention where on the Supernatural timeline this story is set to. (Season ten. Post Deanmon.)

Boulder, Colorado

Lucy arrived at the hospital on time, not because the nurse's schedule dictated her life or even because it was part of the routine people often get sucked into. She went to work because she hoped beyond hope Elsie would turn up. It was unlikely; she had seen the video from the security camera, and if anything, the video should have told her to run like Hell was at her heels. But she stayed, because if Elsie did come back, how could she find Lucy if Lucy disappeared to Timbuktu?

So the young-looking redhead worked as if nothing happened (or, rather, as if something was going to happen). Her shift in the ER began promptly at 6 o'clock in the morning. She arrived at 5:45 and started at 5:49. It was 11:32 when her life got sucker punched in the jugular.

She was carrying a metallic clipboard with her sights on the waiting room to usher a surly carpenter with a 5 inch, 40d galvanized nail pierced straight through his hand, when they came. There were two of them, both in suits, both with FBI badges. They weren't really FBI, and Lucy knew it.

It wasn't the cheap suits that tipped her off; Lucy didn't know enough or care enough about fashion to know a cheap suit when she saw one. And it wasn't the fake badges; Lucy thought they looked passable. It wasn't even the fake names; Halford and Tipton seemed believable enough if you weren't a fan of Judas Priest (which Lucy wasn't).

What tipped Lucy off was their scent. Rather, his scent. The one with dark hair, jade eyes and whisky breath. The tall one she had never seen or smelled, but she had caught a whiff of "Agent Halford" some towns and some years back when he was knocking out a nest she belonged to once upon a time. He had done a decent job all by himself. Now there were two of them.

Hunters.

The men folded their badge wallets once Lucy had given them a quick glance, and tucked them away in the inner pocket of their suit jackets.

"Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, Miss…?" the tall one with impressive hair asked. His eyes lowered to the laminated badge clipped to the pocket of her blue scrubs. "Ball."

"Wait," the first one said, staring down at the name printed in black beneath a photograph of the same freckled redhead that stood in front of them. "Your name is Lucy Ball?"

Lucy's expression drew a blank. To Sam and Dean (she didn't know their real names were Sam and Dean, but they were), she looked like the antithesis of amused. Annoyed, even. Not at all terrified, which is how she felt. Because "Ball" was her last name as much as Halford and Tipton were theirs.

In hindsight, Ball was probably not the most conspicuous name she could have given herself. She told anyone who asked that her parents were big "I Love Lucy" fans (although the truth was that she was a big "I Love Lucy" when it originally debuted). Most people didn't ask. They either assumed her parents were being funny, or found it highly entertaining.

Dean was one of the highly entertained. He was wearing a grin that pronounced the creases at the corner of his eyes.

"Luuuucy!" he said, imitating Ricky Ricardo's scolding timbre. He smiled at his own joke and looked to Sam for approval. When Sam shot him a pointed look — a wordless and unenthusiastic "dude, no" — the smile was eaten away by a slow awkwardness Dean tried to deflect by nodding at a passing nurse in pink scrubs.

"One of the other nurses we spoke to said you were close to Elsie Perez," Sam said, choosing the straight path to business. "Would you mind answering a few questions for us?"

"Not at all," Lucy said with a faux smile that passed for real.

"Did you happen to notice anything strange about Elsie before she went missing?" Sam asked.

"No." Lucy's long ponytail whipped the sides of her neck as she shook her head. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Was Elsie hanging out with anyone new?" Dean questioned. "A boyfriend, or a new group of people? Maybe a particularly rowdy bunch?"

Lucy's heart leaped into her throat. Were they taunting her with vampire stereotypes? Trying to get a rise out of her to confirm the conclusion they had undoubtedly already drawn?

"No," Lucy said with a tremble. Dean picked up on this and began to eye her with skepticism. "Elsie was my best friend." She set aside her nervousness to allow the fire of hatred to blaze across her green eyes. "Whoever took her was not someone we knew."

"You seem pretty sure about that," Dean borderline accused. He absently put a hand in his pants pocket and tilted his head back ever so slightly. "You also seem pretty confident your friend is dead."

Lucy's eyes darted between the hunters. She shifted uncomfortably and clutched her clipboard to her chest.

"Chances of finding someone after the first 48 hours drops to almost nothing," she said, successfully attempting a smooth, logical voice. "She's been gone for a week."

Sam and Dean shared a quick glance Lucy couldn't quite read. To her it looked knowing; they knew what she was, and worse, they knew what happened to Elsie. Because, Lucy was certain, they were the ones who had taken her.

"Miss Ball, are you aware of the blood that's gone missing from this hospital?" Sam asked.

Lucy's jaw clenched before she gave up the act and took the bait.

"Why can't you just leave us alone?"

The words came out in a whisper and they came without thought. They were timid but angry. Wounded and bitter.

Sam and Dean exchanged a brief, quizzical glance before giving Lucy a baffled look. Lucy assumed they were either shocked she was calling them out, or annoyed she had figured them out in broad daylight before they could surprise her come night.

"Excuse me?" Dean asked, and Lucy thought he did an excellent job at playing a beautiful dummy.

"We're not hurting anybody," Lucy said in a low tone one notch above a whisper. "Can't you just leave us alone?"

Sam's brows knitted together. Also a good play, Lucy thought. He could have been an actor.

"I'm sorry," the tallest Winchester said. "I'm not sure we follow."

Lucy rolled her eyes.

"I know you're hunters," she said bluntly, taking Sam and Dean aback. She leaned forward and dropped her tone. "And I know what you did to Elsie."

"We didn't…" Sam started, then trailed off when it struck him. The crease in his brow thickened and he pointed vaguely at her. "Wait. Are you and Elsie vampires?"

Lucy's eyes widened with horror. They hadn't been playing her, or taunting her. Whatever it was they thought, it wasn't that she and her life mate, Elsie, were a couple of fangs (or a fang couple, as it were).

Her silence served as her response, and the brisk step back spoke louder than any words could have.

"That explains the missing blood bags," Dean concluded, turning aside to look at Sam.

"You didn't… you didn't kill Elsie?" Lucy asked anxiously.

"No," Sam told her.

"Oh god." Lucy felt sick. "Please don't kill me."

"Relax, Twilight," Dean said, taking a casual look around to assure himself no one had heard Lucy beg them not to kill her. "As long as you're not dropping bodies, you're in the clear." He paused and gave her a grin that stabbed away cheer with grave sincerity. "But if you do start dropping bodies, don't think for one second we won't find you."

"Dean," Sam said scoldingly. He gave his older brother a disapproving shake of his head, who returned the gesture with an unapologetic "what?" expression. Sam turned his attention back to Lucy. "Were you two the only vamps in town?"

Lucy nodded in place of the words that stuck in her throat.

"Well, this has been pointless," Dean said with another insincere smile. Sam pursed his lips and lifted his brows in relative agreement.

"Thank you for your time," Sam said respectfully, more out of habit than anything. They turned to walk away, but something possessed Lucy to call out to them.

"Wait!" she said, eliciting their attention enough for them to stop. "Are you… can you help me find Elsie?"

Sam turned away. Dean scoffed.

"Sorry, sweetheart," he told her. "Finding lost vamps ain't in the job description. Just be glad we're leaving you alone."

Lucy stood in solid shock for a while after the Not-FBI-But-Odd-Shades-Of-Gray-Hunters disappeared out the sliding glass doors of the ER. Later, she would quit her job, and within the week, she disappeared into the eastbound fray with their scent in her mind and the loss of Elsie in her chest.

Saul Sinatra (no relation to any other Sinatra you may have heard of) hated hospitals. They gave him the heebie-jeebies. They looked clean and sterile, but oh baby, there were viruses lurking around every corner. That's what went through Saul's head every time he walked the halls of a hospital. So when his father (who had come down with an aggressive form of lung cancer) slipped into a deep sleep, Saul bounced down to the parking garage for a toke and a smoke (an irony that was not completely lost on him).

He was huddled between his '98 Jeep Cherokee and a brick wall, enjoying a joint of premium weed the seller called "Northern Lights" when he heard two sets of shoes clicking against concrete, echoes that were followed by a pair of voices.

"I told you it wasn't a case," a gravelly baritone said with a note of contempt.

"We've checked into less," another voice returned. "And it wasn't exactly nothing."

"Yeah," the first voice scoffed sarcastically. "A missing vampire. That's right up our alley, Sam."

Vampire?

Saul quietly sat up and peeked through the tinted back window of his Jeep. He spied Sam and Dean ambling towards the Impala, parked six spaces from him. Saul, who had them pegged as Feds, hastily licked his fingers and pinched his joint out. He watched as Sam stopped and sniffed the air.

"You smell weed?" he casually asked.

Paranoia seized Saul's heart, sending adrenaline blasting through his veins.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean spoke as he fished a set of keys out of his pants pocket. "It's the scent of Colorado. The whole damn state smells like weed."

Sam made a face, thoughtful and agreeing, and lumbered on.

"You don't think it's weird someone kidnapped a vampire?" Sam asked and Dean shrugged.

"How do we know it's not just another hunter who sucks at the job?" Dean offered a simple conclusion. Sam teetered his head from side to side.

"Maybe," he half agreed. Thoughtful pause. "Garth said one of his church members went missing. Got picked up in a white van, like Elsie."

"So it's a hunter who really sucks at the job," Dean dismissed. "Finding missing monsters ain't part of the gig, Sammy. And since when do you talk to Garth?"

"He called me," Sam admitted as the brothers paused at the trunk of the Impala.

Saul would have made a break for it, but the conversation he had unintentionally eavesdropped on was too bizarre for him to walk away now. He strained his ears to hear where the Winchester's (who he was still sure were Feds, despite the old muscle car they clamored around) story was going.

"And?" Dean said.

"And I told him I would look into it," Sam confessed, causing Dean to roll his eyes and his head.

"We are not looking into missing monsters," Dean said flatly, gesturing with a hand that underlined his words.

"I'm not saying we should," Sam agreed. "But don't you think it's kind of weird? I mean, who nabs a vamp and a werewolf?"

"Who indeed?"

The husky, English accented voice startled Saul, who ducked like someone was shooting at him. He pressed his back against the Jeep and strained to hear anything above the hammer of his heart. He half expected his cover to be blown before he tried to reason with himself that he had every right to be in that parking garage with a half-smoked joint smashed into his fist (which is a difficult thing to accomplish when you've just smoked half a joint.)

"Oh, good. It's Crowley," Saul heard Dean say between the rapid thumps of paranoia that played his heart like a two year old plays an overturned pot with a spoon.

"Hello, boys," the new voice greeted.

The paranoia gradually faded away when Saul convinced himself he was in the clear (a feat made more achievable by knowing he had not been spotted). It was replaced with a fleeting stench of sulfur. Saul wrinkled his nose and carefully rose to peer through the window again. Despite the new voice, he was still surprised to find the "agents" had been joined by what looked like a wealthy stockbroker (but who was actually the king of the damned).

"What do you want?" Sam snapped, nothing short of annoyed.

"Why would you assume that I want anything?" Crowley questioned innocently. "I just happened to be in the neighborhood and noticed you were looking into missing monsters. I thought I could shed a little light on the situation."

"We're not looking into missing monsters," Dean said defensively, casually gesturing towards Crowley with his hand to bolden his statement. His hand dropped along with his expression, which faded to mild embarrassment. "But if you know something about it," he continued with a nonchalant air that was as real as leopard print on a Cougar's blouse. "I wouldn't not listen."

A smirk teased the corner of Crowley's mouth as he shoved his hands into his black pea coat.

"They call themselves Sanguinibus Deorum," the king divulged. "Latin for—"

"Blood gods," Sam interrupted. Dean's brows furrowed and his nose wrinkled as he shot Sam a bemused look.

"How do you know so much Latin?" he asked. Sam half frowned and half arched a brow at his brother.

"How do you not know more Latin by now?" he retorted.

Crowley cleared his throat impatiently, roping the Winchester's attention back in. Saul's attention didn't need to be harnessed. He watched all of this like a TV drama he had just discovered on Netflix. Vampires. Werewolves. Gods?

What the hell is going on?

"They are, for lack of a better term, a gang of pagan deities," Crowley explained. "Particularly nasty deities, to be precise. They practically run New Orleans"

"Okay," Dean said, appearing largely unimpressed. "What does a gang of dickbag gods want with monsters?" He paused to allow a snarky grin form. "Are they looking for Purgatory?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. Saul leaned closer, so close his forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window.

"Cock fights," Crowley said, ignoring the Purgatory jab. "Sans the cocks."

"So, monster fights," Sam clarified, in case the obvious hadn't been clear to anyone (which it had been, even to Saul who only just discovered the supernatural was real.)

Dean pondered this and shrugged.

"Huh," he said, amused but disinterested. "That's new." He paused to look at Sam. "You ready?"

"Yeah," Sam said, eager to leave the presence of the king of Hell and the conversation he had brought with him.

The Winchesters turned their backs on Crowley. Crowley pursed his lips, rolled his eyes in annoyance, and took a single step forward.

"Aren't you two morons going to do anything about it?" he demanded to know. Sam and Dean grudgingly paused and turned back around.

"Yeah," Dean said. "We're gonna send 'em a fruit basket for taking out some fangs for us."

"They took one of my demons," Crowley protested.

If Saul hadn't already been hooked, he was now. The idea of angels and demons and Revelations were concepts he had always gravitated towards (although the pre-stages of the almost Armageddon he hadn't even noticed.) The one they called Crowley looked human, but Saul had read enough lore and unsolved mysteries to grasp the concept of possession, and he drew his own conclusions about the king (conclusions that happened to be correct.) Conclusions that made him shiver.

"You expect us to believe you give a crap about one kidnapped demon?" Sam questioned with a skeptical air and a cocked brow. "We've killed more demons than we can count." He paused to critically scrutinize the king. "What do they really have?"

Crowley grumbled inaudibly, displeased he was being forced to reveal his true motives.

"They have something of mine," he begrudgingly admitted. "And it would be in everyone's best interest if they didn't have it."

"Something of yours or something you want?" Sam questioned accusingly. Crowley rolled his eyes.

"The point isn't whether or not it belongs to me," he said vaguely, prompting an eye roll from each Winchester and a soundless and sarcastic "ha!" to form on Saul's lips. "The point is that these bloody pagans have something incredibly powerful and it would be terribly unfortunate if they were to discover what it is capable of."

The Winchesters hesitated. Saul watched them shift awkwardly as they considered what they had been told. To Saul, this was better than the movies. He only wished he had a bucket of popcorn and a liter of cola (or any beverage, really. His mouth was dry and felt distinctly like he had stuffed a handful of cotton balls inside.)

"Let me guess," Dean said with a smile that lacked amusement. "You can't get in to take it yourself, so you want us to Mission: Impossible the clubhouse and nab it for you?"

"Well, if you're offering," Crowley said, casually inspecting his immaculate cuticles. Sam sneered and exhaled a heavy breath through his nose.

"Even if we do go down to New Orleans and steal a powerful object from a gang of angry gods, what makes you think we're going to hand it over to you?"

"Because I'm the only one who knows how to keep it safe," Crowley replied, his tone calm but teetering on an anxiety Saul could pick up from his spot several yards away. The Winchesters, however, did not appear to hear this clue.

"Safer than the bunker?" Dean challenged.

"Miles safer than that bloody hole you call a bunker," Crowley spat. "I've been there so many times I would be surprised if there was any warding left." He paused to gauge the expressions on their faces, neither of which favored him or his ideas. "The only safe place to hide this… thing, is in Hell."

Sam made an "uh-huh" noise in his throat and lifted his brows at Dean. His expression changed from unamused to surprised when he noticed his brother's state of contemplation.

"Say we do go Raiders on this god cave," Dean said. "What's in it for us?"

"Besides avoiding another tedious effort to stop the world from collapsing at the hands of supernatural entities?" Crowley said icily. His jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. "I'll owe you one."

"You'll owe us one?" Dean echoed, his brows raising in amusement.

"I bloody well gave you my offer," Crowley grumbled with a note of embarrassment. "You don't have to make me repeat myself."

Sam and Dean exchanged a soulful glance. A wordless communication system that required no body language. Like telepathy, minus the actual mind reading.

"Do it," Saul whispered, momentarily forgetting he was not watching television. "Go Raiders!"

"We'll check it out," Dean said once their gestureless communication had been completed.

"Excellent," Crowley declared, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat.

"But that's gonna cost you one," Dean negotiated, causing Crowley to pause and his expression to deadpan. "Actually busting in and taking this thing, that's gonna cost you another favor."

Crowley paused. He ran his tongue over his bottom teeth and narrowed his eyes again.

"Fine," he agreed with a cold breath. He withdrew a small scroll of yellowed paper and handed it to Sam without looking at him. Sam took it with a look of confusion.

"What's this?" he asked before he tugged the wine-red ribbon fashioned around the paper.

"An address where you can find the heathen pagans," Crowley replied, suddenly as relaxed as he had been upon arriving. "And a list of its members." He paused, stuffed his hands back into his coat pockets and gave the hunters a satisfied, yet slightly skeptical, look. "Pleasure doing business with you," he said sardonically, turning to take his leave. "Stay in touch."

"Wait!" Dean called. Crowley stopped and turned slightly. "Exactly what is it we're looking for, anyway?"

Crowley smirked.

"Lavender," he said vaguely. Dean squinted like the answer to his unasked question existed in the distance.

"Like, the flower?" Dean said, and Crowley rolled his eyes.

"It's a good thing you're pretty," he muttered. "What you're looking for is the color lavender. Believe me. You'll know it when you see it."

And he was gone. Saul had to blink, rub his eyes, and blink again to make sure he had seen what he had seen, which was a man turning into nothingness. Or evaporating. Or vanishing. Saul shook his head and looked down at the join he was still holding.

"We really gonna do this?" Sam questioned, his expression, in Saul's opinion, far too blasé considered the not-quite-a-man had just vanished before his eyes.

Sam turned to Dean, who shrugged.

"A gang of gods with a weapon powerful enough to start Apocalypse two point oh?" Dean said. "I think that's worth checking into."

"Yeah," Sam said resentfully. A slow smile crept across his face. "I told you there was a case here."

"Shadup," Dean grumbled.

Saul watched the hunters (who he was now fully convinced were real-life X-File feds) climb into the black Impala and drive away.

"Fuck," Saul muttered to himself, breathing a deep sigh of relief. He stood upright, stuck the joint back between his lips and shook his head. "Was that even real?" his muffled words questioned as he lit his joint.

"Very real."

Saul managed to hold on to a scream as Crowley appeared beside him. His eyes, however, widened and he jumped back, falling against his Jeep. Crowley (who smelled like expensive cologne and scotch under the initial wave of sulfur, Saul noticed) watched him with delight, relishing in the reaction he should invoke in mankind.

"You got quite an earful, didn't you?" Crowley more stated than asked. Saul nodded, staring at the demon with wonder and fear.

"I-I d-didn't mean to," Saul stammered. "I was just minding my own business when those two FBI guys came wandering through, and then you popped up—"

He stopped liked a truck hitting a brick wall at Crowley's disenchanted gesture that consisted simply of him raising his hand.

"I'm sure it was all a frightful mistake," Crowley agreed. "One could hardly blame you for cowering like a filthy mutt. Stoned out of your mind, mere yards from what you thought were federal agents. If I were human, I might have frozen, too."

"I won't say anything, man," Saul frantically swore. "No one'll believe me. Not that I'd tell them," he rapidly added. "It's just… I… I'll take this to the grave."

Crowley smirked.

"I know you will," he said. "We can't have just anyone knowing about all this, can we?"

Saul shook his head. Crowley gave him a wicked grin.

"There's a good dog."

Saul breathed a deep sigh of relief. And then, with a flick of Crowley's wrist, his neck snapped. His body slid clumsily across the side of the Jeep and hit the concrete with a muted thud. Crowley looked down with nothing short of apathy. Apathy gave way to mild interest when he spotted the joint smoldering on the ground next to fresh corpse. He bent down, picked it up, and experimentally took in a long drag. He nodded in approval and blew a thick cloud of skunky smoke down at Saul.

"Not bad."