When Meg came around with the Impala to pick Sam up, he offered to take Amelia home but she had driven to the diner so she said she'd drive herself back. They hurried in, with Meg at the wheel, and as soon as the doors were slammed shut Sam asked, "So what was all that back there?"

"What was all what?" Meg feigned ignorance.

"You know what I mean—the demons," Sam growled, eyes slightly narrowing. "What were demons doing on your tail?"

"My tail? Sammy darlin', a few things you need to know about demons—ever since Crowley mojo'd Kevin off, demons have been on your trail. It's sort of only natural."

"What. Happened. Back. There?" Sam spat out. "You almost died. They would have come after me if they'd killed you, and I would most probably be dead."

"No you wouldn't," snorted Meg. "It's a diner, there's ample amounts of salt around. And you're not worried about me—oh, are you worried about Amelia darling?"

Sam blushed slightly. "Maybe," he admitted.

"That's cute," Meg said, twisting the key in the ignition and starting the Impala up. "But for future reference, you don't have to worry about me."

"Oh, and that as well—what exactly happened back there? A car in a spot half-concealed from the diner blowing up doesn't just randomly happen if you had been cornered. It wasn't their car, either."

Meg rolled her eyes. "Sammy boy, you didn't think I wasn't prepared for Crowley's minions to come after me?"

"Yes, but—it was a freaking car blowing up. Just how much do you know about the whereabouts of Crowley's minions?"

Meg seemed to consider his question, and then shrugged. "Nothing you wouldn't know if you were in my place," she finally said. "It's not as much as you would think. Yes, I knew they were going to be there. Yes, I rigged the car to blow up on my signal. No, I don't know where Crowley is, sorry. If I had you think I would have withheld that information? I know you want to send his ass to hell as much as I do."

"I don't know that," Sam said. "Convince me."

Meg stopped the Impala on the side of the road suddenly, turning on him. "What is that supposed to mean, 'convince me'? How am I supposed to convince you I hate Crowley as much as you? Maybe, oh, he hates my guts and whenever we meet he tries to drag me to Hell. Maybe, oh, the fact that I try to do the same to him. It's not some big orchestrated plot, you know. It's the truth. Now, is that all you have to ask me or can I continue driving to the motel now?"

Sam didn't answer, chastened, and Meg gave a satisfied grunt and floored the gas.

The only way Meg knew where Crowley's minions were was because she knew people high up in the ranks, people that had been a huge help when escaping with Sam way back when (it was only a few weeks ago, but good lord it had felt longer than that). They hadn't spoken since then (and 'they' meaning Meg and Diaz, who was currently stuck in a series of meetings Below, probably most of them concerning Meg and the Winchester left) but when they got back to Sam's motel room (they both shared it, though it was 'Sam's motel room') Meg grabbed her cell and flipped it up, speed dialing his number.

"Hello?" a deep voice greeted her. Meg could almost envision his meat suit of choice, a tall young man with a round face, pale skin, large ears and glasses. "Who is this?"

"It's Meg," Meg said.

His voice became hushed. "Meg, glad to hear from you—not a good time. I'm in the middle of a meeting right now."

"Figured you would," Meg drawled. "Look, all I have to say is that the Winchester is getting tetchy about how I know so much about Crowley. I'm not, under any circumstances, going to tell him about you, so that might create some problems. So, um, do you have a safe house anywhere? I have a feeling I'll really need one in a few."

"Not at the moment—look, Meg, in a meeting. Need to hang up. Get back to you in a few, yeah?" With no warning, he hung up on her.

Meg flipped her phone shut and growled to herself, "Nice talking to you too, Diaz."

"Tell me about what?" the familiar voice came from the doorway, and Meg started. Sam leaned against it, looking rather interested. "No, don't make yourself uncomfortable, please just sit down and tell me. Who is this Diaz you called? What does it have to do with Crowley?"

Meg's throat was dry—all in all, not an unusual occurrence. She did want to tell Sam at least some of the story; after all, Sam knew there was more to what had happened to Meg than just being stuck on the rack until Sam barged in and dragged her back (which was not how it happened, but Sam was drunk at the time and Meg didn't feel like telling him that part in detail). The one thing she was not going to tell him under any circumstances was the Dean being in Purgatory part.

Diaz had been a rather large part of Meg's story.

It was a momentary relief from constant pain. Meg had only been Below two days at the most, and someone had yet to get Crowley—someone was going to get him now. Meg was breathing heavily, sagging on the rack and coughing shining blood as her soul tried to recover.

She heard footsteps and saw feet at the bottom of her vision; pointy shoes, in fact, and couldn't force herself to spit on them or make a sarcastic comment about Hell's hospitality to the demon.

"Are you Azazel's daughter?" the deep voice asked.

"Check the soul tag," Meg groaned.

It took a moment before he responded. "So you're…Meg, right?"

"You new or something? Yes, dumbass, I'm the Number One Prisoner. The seventy-plus guards around us mean anything to you?"

He ignored her sarcasm. "I'm not here to torture you, Miss Masters. I'm here to give you a message. Look at me."

Meg lifted her head to look at the man. There was almost no light but she could make out green-grey eyes and slick brown hair. The demon had a preference for prim and proper meat suits, then.

"What's the message?" she rasped.

"It's anonymous," he said, "but it's from a cult, I suppose you could say, whose sole mission is to exterminate Crowley."

"So Luci's old supporters?" Meg asked. There were a few of them, she knew, quiet and hidden in the shadows of Hell, always plotting and planning.

"No, actually. Their message is to wait, because help is coming."

Meg looked around painfully; the guards hadn't moved from their respective spots, not even blinked at the messenger. "What's the name of this cult?" she asked.

"The Roses," the man replied, and suddenly blanched. Psychic message, Meg could tell. "Crowley's coming. I must leave." Without another word, he disappeared.

Crowley appeared in all his dignity as King of Hell, looking distastefully at Meg. He sauntered forward, a bottle of Scotch in his hand. Meg dropped her head to her chest, no more energy keeping her head up and a blossom of hope sprouting somewhere deep in her soul.

The Roses. Help is coming.

"Well, well, well," Crowley tsked, taking a swig from his bottle, "Meg, Meg, Meg, how's it hanging? Enjoying the hospitalities of Hell yet? Ready for a—what's the phrase?—a 'rocking' ride?"

"Go to Hell," Meg groaned.

"I own it, sweetheart," Crowley replied without missing a beat, the smirk still on his face. "Now, do you actually know why you're top priority here?"

"Because I'm your famous enemy, caught and locked up, and you want to show me off to all your friends," Meg shrugged verbally, listless.

"Not quite, sweetheart," Crowley said, snapping his fingers (the décor must not be to his liking), and then they were sitting across from each other in his office, Meg shackled to her chair but her wounds healed and Crowley was pouring her a glass of Scotch.

"Remember this place?" he mused. "We used to come in here all the time."

"Centuries ago," Meg dully reminded him, snatching the glass with her free hand and downed it in one gulp.

"Same office," Crowley shrugged. "If we're on the topic of…us…then I want to say, for the record, it was a bit rude for you to dump me."

"We're not—aren't we talking about my status as Prisoner of War or something?"

"Probably," Crowley agreed, downing his own glass. "Just wanted to point it out. I'll be a good host now and ask how your stay has been so far."

"Not as good as last time," Meg growled, staring into the bottom of her empty glass and refusing to look at him. "Your minions seemed to have forgotten the meal service."

"Charming," Crowley laughed humorlessly.

"What am I really here for?" Meg sighed.

"You're on the Winchester's side," Crowley started, "in this mess of a war."

"So are you," shrugged Meg. "That's not the point."

"Yes, that is the point, let me get to it," Crowley rolled his eyes. "I actually like the buggers after all this time. What if I was to tell you Dean was stuck in Purgatory?"

"What if I was to tell you I already knew?" Meg replied nonchalantly.

"Then I would say you're good," was Crowley's offhand remark, and Meg couldn't stop her smirk. "As much as I don't want to ask you this because I could get centuries of pleasure down here torturing you, I have a job offer for you."

"And it is…" Meg waited.

"I need you to retrieve Dean Winchester from Purgatory," Crowley sighed.

"You what?" Meg blinked blankly.

"Don't make me repeat myself," Crowley growled.

"What will happen once I achieve this?" Meg asked slowly.

"You'll be put back on the rack so I can get centuries of pleasure torturing you. Look, you're the only one down here that cares even a bit about Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber aside from myself—and I'm not going to risk getting my hands dirty. It's a break from eternal punishment, so take it or leave it."

"What if I escape into the Monster Forest and stay there?" Meg snapped back, shrewd as ever. What was the real reason Crowley wanted to get her out of his presence? Any demon seeking Crowley's favor would undertake the mission in a heartbeat, there were plenty candidates unless—oh. Unless they were all dead from the attempt.

Meg gulped.

Crowley shrugged again. "It will be straight from here to Purgatory and back. If you want to get trapped in the Forest with millions of monsters who want a taste of demon flesh, be my guest. You know which option is worse."

That Meg did. She didn't even have to think about whether to refuse the offer or not; not with the knot of cleverness, half-formed ideas and hope bubbling in her chest.

"I'll do it," she blurted, reaching for Crowley's Scotch to refill her glass.

Crowley was surprised by her enthusiastic response. "That's a good girl. Now, someone will help you get ready and clean and I'll meet you in 15 minutes by the nearest door to the Forest, yeah?"

Meg nodded and downed her glass, and was whisked off to get ready for the job she had accepted.

"A few things," Meg finally said. "None of which is important. What is important, though, is exactly how the rest of your date with Amelia went while I was off saving our asses. Come on, spill."

Sam gave her an annoyed look that read I know you're trying to change the subject, but let it be. "It was…nice. We talked about a few things."

"Such as…?"

"Meg, I'm not giving you outlines of my dates. Don't we have more important things to worry about?"

"Like what?" Meg scratched her ear.

"Like," Sam repeated, "getting the location of where Crowley's minions are staked out and how to send them all back to Hell."

"Well, they're probably staked out in Hell," Meg said, but Sam wouldn't let her go any further.

"Hell doesn't open from just anywhere, does it? Demons can't pop there and back whenever they feel like it, can they?"

"Well, no…"

"Where are the doors usually located?" Sam prompted.

Meg shrugged. "I don't know. An intersection or a cemetery or something."

"Are there many cemeteries around here?" Sam asked.

"Well, no…" Meg said again.

"So every time they pop out of Hell they're going to walk from wherever the nearest cemetery is to wherever they're going to patrol? I don't think so, especially not with backwater Texan towns. There's got to be some motel they were bunking in—you did kill the entire patrol, didn't you?"

Meg nodded.

"Then all that will be left wherever they're staying is there stuff, maybe some clues to where the rest of the various patrols are." Sam looked at her like he had just received enlightenment (still excited about Amelia, huh?). "Come on, Meg, think. You know them better than anyone on our side. Where do you think they are?"

Meg shrugged helplessly. She had purposefully distanced herself from most of Hell's occupants growing up, she was Azazel's daughter, not some random roughneck. Where would they stay that was close? Motel or hotel? Camp out in the forest where they could draw protection spells without any questioning occupants? (After all, they couldn't kill everyone without Hunters getting involved.) "I-I don't know." Think, Meg. Wet-nosed kid, straight from Below, testing his sea legs with a trip Topside. Would he choose the most lavish place he could find, or try to brave it somewhere barely above the comfort level? "Motel, maybe?" Going for macho and bragging rights, possibly. Wanting to tell all his friends how he survived in a motel Topside. A crappy motel, at that. Those were the people that Hell was sending out now, eh?

Meg tried to smile, but it ended up a grimace. She'd killed all the suitable ones working for Crowley, eh?

"Let's think," Sam was rambling, because he thought aloud often now—with someone aside from Dean in the room with him. "Small town. There's bound to be a Motel 8, I saw one on the way through… I haven't seen any others, have I? I've been everywhere easily accessible, so the only other option would be…"

Meg turned to look at him, both of them reaching the conclusion at the same time.

"They could have been here," Meg breathed.

Sam let out a huge breath in relief that the demons did not crash the door down one random night before Sam had bought replacement salt at the grocery store and laid the salt lines down.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Meg asked, tucking her demon knife in her coat's inner pocket. "Let's go hunt 'em out."