It started when the earthquakes came and America was absent at the world meeting. No one thought anything of it; he was probably helping with the disaster relief. No one even thought to call his boss to confirm.

Then the hurricanes struck the southeastern coast, and still no one heard from America. There must have been something wrong; two natural disasters within three days, and he hadn't even called anyone to complain about it? Almost unheard of.

It wasn't until earthquakes ravaged San Francisco and turned into fires – again – that someone finally gave his president a call, only to find that the nation had been missing since the first night.

Still, America was young, and God knew he could be imprudent and childish when he put his mind to it. With three natural disasters in a week, he was probably running around trying to fix everything by himself, or off somewhere sulking until it was over. Whatever it was, everyone agreed, it would blow over without their help.

Well, not everyone. None of the assembled nations noticed four among their number exchanging grim looks.

"Dean?"

The older Winchester raised his head groggily from the lumpy hotel pillow. "Yeah?" He blinked several times at Sam, who was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a bagel, poring over a newspaper. "Dude, are you reading a newspaper? Where'd you get that?"

"Gas station. Dean, you really should look at this."

Dean let his head fall back to the pillow and made no move to get up. "What is it?"

His half-closed eyes were fixed on the ceiling, but he could imagine his brother glaring at him in irritation. "Okay, look. Is it normal for three natural disasters to hit all across the United States, for stock prices to take a plunge, and for unemployment to go up five percent, all in the same week?"

Dean promptly sat up, only to go partially blind for a moment as blood rushed from his head. "Hell no." He paused. "Think it's the Leviathans?"

There was a moment of silence as Sam thought this over. "...I don't think so. So far Leviathans have been more interested in eating people than in screwing with the economy."

"Angry pagan gods?"

"Possible. But what kind of pagan god can make the stock market fall? It's not like they're good at keeping with the times."

Dean thought for a moment. "Demons, then."

"Except Crowley said he'd keep the demons off our backs while we dealt with the Leviathans."

"Well, yeah, but one, it's Crowley," Dean pointed out. "And two, we haven't been investing in the stock market or getting caught in any earthquakes. He never said he'd keep his demons from stirring up other kinds of shit."

"True, but I've still never heard of demons causing this scale of destruction. Not since we locked up Lucifer." He jerked his head up. "Wait, you don't think—"

"No," Dean snapped. "We would've heard about it if he got loose. Hell, Crowley would've come crying to us about it."

Sam ran his hand through his hair. "So basically, we have no idea what this could be."

"Nope." Dean got to his feet. "But Crowley might."

Deep within the pits of Hell, Crowley leaned over his desk, propped himself up on his elbows, and rested his face in his hands with a deep sigh. Really. If he'd known just how much shit went into being King of Hell, he probably would have shunted the job to someone else. If he didn't have a psychotic angel with a Caligula complex threatening his existence, then he had two rather resilient mortal thorns in his side, or less resilient but no less irritating demonic thorns.

But that was okay. He had gone in expecting that. (Perhaps not the first one, but he'd come out of it in one piece, hadn't he?) Then there were... the other ones. He hadn't been prepared for them.

Fuck, he was going to get so much shit for this.

As if on cue, Crowley felt an unfortunately familiar tugging in the pit of his stomach, and was promptly yanked from his tastefully furnished office, dragged vaguely upward, and deposited in the middle of a skillfully drawn and faintly glowing chalk circle.

In truth, he was actually overjoyed when he found himself in what looked like an abandoned warehouse, staring at a pair of familiar grim faces.

"Oh, thank fuck, it's you two," he commented, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of the Winchesters.

Sam regarded him suspiciously. "What do you mean by that?" he asked warily. "Who'd you think it was gonna be?"

"Doesn't matter," Dean broke in bluntly. "Do you know anything about the—"

The tugging sensation returned. Crowley had barely enough time for an "Oh, fuck me sideways," before he was whisked away once more.

He nearly listed to the side when he found himself on solid ground again, this time in the middle of a very well-kept sitting room. He managed to catch himself without stumbling, which was good. It wouldn't do to look foolish in front of anyone. Especially not the one who now stood before him, staring at him as coldly as Death himself.

The man was only a little taller than Crowley, with a mess of scruffy blond hair and vivid, moss-green eyes. Dressed in an oatmeal-colored cable-knit sweater vest over a neatly buttoned shirt, not to mention deceptively youthful-looking, he looked like just the sort of human that the King of Hell could squash between his thumb and forefinger. Except he wasn't human, and he was looking at Crowley like he would be the one doing the squashing, if only his thumb and forefinger weren't already occupied with holding a cup of tea.

"Hello, Fergus," the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland greeted him smoothly.

"England," Crowley said brightly. "What a surprise. You, calling on the King of the Judeo-Christian Hell for a chat? You're usually so very pagan."

"Yes, well, you're usually so very good about keeping your end of the deals you make," England retorted. "We had one, remember? I do. I had to snog you for it."

"Yes, and it made me feel so warm and patriotic inside," said Crowley. "About the deal..."

"It was such a nice deal, too," England went on, his voice calm. Crowley wasn't fooled; he'd spent enough time around the pure evil and unhinged to know when someone was just barely holding back unstoppable rage. "You keep your demons out of our affairs, and we keep the other nations, those who don't know of you, out of yours. I didn't realize it would be so bloody difficult."

"The only reason it was such an easy deal for you was because you had the other two negotiate," Crowley growled.

"Not the point!" England snapped. "You broke it, Crowley! Don't try to deny it, either. I may be old, but I'm not blind – I can see what's happening in the United States. What the bloody hell did you do?"

"I didn't approve it," the King of Hell said with a shrug. "In fact, I was very detail-oriented when I told my muppets what would happen if they disobeyed. But you know how underlings are. Always looking for a way to impress you. I assure you, once I have the demon responsible for this back in hell, I will make an example of her." His eyes smoldered. "I don't like it when demons break their promises. I really don't like it when they cause me to break one of mine."

England blinked. "Oh. Did I interrupt you, then? Are you planning on going after her?"

"Unfortunately, she has a particularly powerful vessel – and hostage, might I add – at the moment, in case you hadn't noticed," Crowley replied airily. "And she's dead set on getting my attention. Were I to show up at all, much less to try to stop her, she'd only speed things up to show off to me. I'm sure none of us want that."

"Then you're going to make us do it ourselves," England said flatly.

"Not at all. In fact, I happen to know a rather irritating pair of humans whose expertise will prove invaluable to you." He patted his pockets and pulled a paper napkin from one. "D'you have a pen?"

The stone-faced nation produced one from his shirt pocket and passed it to him. After scribbling two names, a phone number, and an address on the napkin, he handed both to England. "There you are. Give that number a ring, and that address is a good motel for you to meet them, if you'd like to do so by tonight. Better hurry, they tend to move around a lot."

England examined the napkin. "Anything else I ought to know?"

"She has friends. Might want to watch out for them."

England groaned in frustration.

"...D'you mind if I leave now?"

"...Fine. Thank you for your assistance, Fergus."

Crowley returned to the warehouse and was not surprised to see that the Winchesters hadn't left. The surprised looks on their faces when he reappeared were well worth the journey.

"Good news, boys, help's on the way," he said cheerfully. "When you get to California, make sure you stay at the Motel 6 in Redding. Oh, and don't mind the angry bloke with the massive eyebrows, he's always like that." With that, he returned to the safety of his office in Hell and dug around for his private stash of alcohol.

The Winchesters were annoying enough to deal with. These bloody nations, on the other hand, were enough to drive anyone mad.

England stood staring at the faded magic circle for a moment. Fergus had been one of his, and he could never help feeling a bit responsible for how he'd turned out. At least he was helpful when it suited him, but the King of Hell was the King of Hell.

With a sigh, the nation set his tea aside, pulled his phone from his pocket, and scrolled through his contacts list. His arms felt strangely leaden, so he simply dialed and put the call on speaker. It rang only once before it was picked up.

"This what I think it's about?" a familiar gravelly voice asked. "You wouldn't call me if it wasn't. Your loss, since I'm awesome."

England's voice was grim. "We have work to do."

Prussia scoffed. "Pfft, you call this work? I'd do this kind of shit for fun if I could. So how're we gonna play this?"

"I've been recommended a pair of hunters," England told him. "Plus, there's apparently more than one of those things gunning for us, so I was thinking that you and the Italy brothers may as well set up defenses around the other nations. I'll go and meet the hunters. When the three of you finish up, you find us, and we'll put an end to this mess."

"Oh, come on, you mean I have to wait to join in the action?" Prussia complained. "Lame!" There was a pause before he went on grudgingly. "Makes sense, though, Mr. Church Of You. You wouldn't know proper religion if it bit you in the–"

"Piss off and pass it on," England snapped, and hung up. Slipping his phone back into his pocket, the old nation heaved a sigh.

"So," a quiet voice spoke up suddenly.

England's heart was in his throat as he turned around to see America standing in the doorway, staring at him with narrowed eyes.