With Lucifer free, time is truly ticking.

It's down to the Winchesters, now.

She sends feelers out, scouts and listeners, to watch and observe the hunters. She hears whispers, hears rumors that they aren't so hot on the apocalypse either. They even, if her sources are correct, have a pet angel on their side—Castiel, the Angel of Thursday. As the archangels' vessels, neither of the brothers are keen to be possessed for a death match, nor for the world to end.

They, she decides, are perfect.

Time to scheme out a plot to get into their trust.

The Colt.

That's her answer.

A famed and hidden modified Colt, able to kill demons with a single shot. Thought lost…until they found it.

And lost it. Again.

Of course.

But just like that…an idea coalesces in her mind.

Crowley finds the Colt in the hands of a thief by the name of Bela Talbot, a cunning femme fatale with interest only in self-preservation. (Crowley likes her the instant she hears of the woman's reputation.) In addition, the thief had made a crossroads deal very nearly ten years ago.

The Queen of the Crossroads appears in the thief's hotel room, just as hell hounds begin to break in.

"Enough, boys!" she snaps, and they whimper in submission, halting several feet behind her. Crowley looks to the shaken thief. "Bela Talbot, yes?"

"Here to collect my soul?" she snips in a sharp English accent. Her voice trembles slightly, bravado unable to completely hide her fear.

The demon pauses to seat herself comfortably and smiles kindly. "Not quite, darling. In fact…I'm offering you the chance to buy it back. And there's only two conditions."

"I'm listening," Bela agrees warily.

"Excellent," Crowley replies lowly. "You give me the Colt, and then you leave America for good, never to return, never to contact anyone here again, especially not the Winchesters."

The thief watches her carefully. "And why would I do that?"

"Because Heaven and Hell are about to burst wide open. They're going to attempt the apocalypse soon and the Winchesters have starring roles."

She snorts. "Why doesn't that surprise me?" she mutters.

"Yes, it's hardly shocking news, I must agree," Crowley says wryly. "But they will be important, and so shall the Colt. If it makes you feel any better, I'm working to stop the apocalypse. So really, making this deal is in your best interest. Especially considering I'm going to rip up your previous contract and allow you to live on."

Relief allowing her snark and sass to return, the thief smiles slyly. "Well, when you put it that way, how can a girl refuse?"

Becky glances between the Winchester brothers. "Well you know she was lying, right? Bela gave the Colt to a demon named Crowley."

Crowley waits in her usual state and gender, lounging in her home with a tumbler of whiskey in her hand. Though there is a documentary on Nazi Germany on the telly, her attention is outside, sensing as three hunters break in and kill her demonic security. Not that she minds. The little buggers were nosy, annoying, horny little bastards.

She had allowed the pet angel to spy on one of her deals, to follow her to the mansion. It was a coincidence that she made the deal while in male form, it really was.

When the power goes out, Crowley waits patiently.

The demon is dressed up for the occasion in a sexy little red number, the silky fabric draped over her skin and molding to her curves. The neckline is draped too, falling down between her breasts. The hem does not even hit her knee, but that suits her purpose. Her black stilettos are less practical, but they make an impression and Crowley learned to fight in heels centuries ago. With her black hair piled elegantly atop her head and blood red lipstick to match the dress, she is hell in high heels and ready for the famous Winchesters.

"Crowley, right?" one calls from the other end of a hallway.

She enters the hall and their sights; their eyes widen. "So…the Hardy boys finally found me. Certainly took you long enough."

They are exactly what she's expected, from all that she's heard, from demons and Gabriel alike. The brothers are tall, good-looking, and lethal. Sam has the look of a gentle giant, but she has heard of his temper. Dean reminds her of a Ken doll, honestly, but he's familiar. Gabriel was right—they're both handsome and she concurs with what he'd said: given the chance, she would jump their bones.

The fun way, not the demonic way.

"Wait, you're Crowley?" Dean exclaims in disbelief, head tilted to the side like a confused puppy.

She laughs smugly. "Oh my dear, really," she purrs. "You act as if you've never met a female demon before. Which I know you have."

"Uh…"

Her smirk curls wider. "Or perhaps it's because your pet angel saw me as a man making a deal."

"So that was you," Sam nods and pauses. "Why the change?"

She laughs. "A homophobic, stupid, greedy banker? Please. He got off too easy making the cursory negotiations with one of my girls. I needed to seal the deal anyway, why not have some fun? But I admit, I find this form more…comfortable," she purrs, the pitch of her voice dropping sensuously. "Suits me better."

"Your favorite meatsuit?" Dean mutters testily.

The demon smiles. "Something like that. It has its advantages," she adds, shoving her full breasts up ostentatiously, grinning. She strides forward, heels clicking loudly, but she stops before the rumpled Persian rug.

Crowley growls under her breath when she sees the devil's trap spray painted on the bottom of it. "Do you have any idea how much this rug cost?" she asks them as two of her lackeys sneak up behind the Winchesters and grab them.

With them restrained, she reaches down to pull the hem of her dress up and remove the Colt from the thigh holster because she has no qualms about flashing some leg. "This is it, right?" she murmurs, studying the weapon.

The boys' eyes widen in shock.

"This is what it's all about…" the Queen of the Crossroads studies the legendary gun admiringly before aiming it.

She shoots the two demons and smiles salaciously at the shocked hunters. "We need to talk…privately," she purrs.

Hesitantly, the younger nods in agreement and she turns. "Follow me," she calls over her shoulder as she leads them to her study. If her hips have extra swing than usual, well, that's her prerogative and she smirks to herself as she feels their gazes drift down to her arse briefly.

So many reasons why she chose this form and this dress.

"What the hell is this?" Dean growls when they enter her study, lit only by the moonlight filtering in through the window and a few burning candles.

She snorts and looks at the gun in her hand as she perches on the edge of her desk. "Do you have any idea how deep I could have buried this thing?" The doors slam shut with a twitch of her hand, making the boys jump. "There's no reason you or anyone should know this even exists at all…except that I told you."

"You told us?" Sam sputters in disbelief.

"Rumors, innuendo, whispers…all sent out on the grapevine for you to hear."

Neither are phased. "Why? Why tell us anything?" Sam growls.

She pauses, raising the gun and pointing it at Dean. "I want you to take this thing to Lucifer and empty it into his intolerable, ugly, arrogant face."

The shorter hunter rolls his eyes. "Uh-huh. Okay. And why would you want the devil dead?"

Well that's a complicated question if she's ever been asked one…but they don't need to know her whole history. "It's called…survival. But I forgot," she adds, setting the Colt down beside her on the desk and crossing her long legs, "You two, at best, are functional morons," she shrugs with a patronizing sneer.

"You're—functioning morons…" Dean tries and fails at a retort.

She giggles in condescension. "So clever, aren't you Dean? My, my. But Lucifer isn't a demon, remember? He's an angel—an angel famous for his hatred of humankind. To him, you're just…filthy bags of bloody pus…"

As she pours a glass of Craig, Dean and Sam exchange a glance, quickly followed by Dean jolting forward to snatch the Colt. Crowley tips her head and the brothers are sent flying back into two armchairs, away from her desk and the gun. "Ah, ah, boys. Manners, please.

"Anyways. If that's the way he feels about you…What can he feel about demons?"

She returns to her pose, sitting on the desk, legs on display, breasts and neck highlighted as she tilts her head back for a drink of the liquor.

"But he created you," Sam replies.

Snorting, she rolls her eyes. As if. "To him, demons are just…servants. Cannon fodder. If Lucifer manages to exterminate humankind…demons are next. So…help me." Crowley smiles. "Let's just go back to simpler, better times—back to when we could all just follow our natures. I'm in sales, damn it!" she exclaims and sighs.

"So," she purrs throatily, coming to stand before them, hip cocked. "What do you say? What if I give you the Colt and you go kill the devil?" She holds it out, smiling encouragingly.

"…oh…kay," Sam agrees warily, accepting the gun as they stand.

"Great," Crowley responds and this is all going so well, all according to plan.

The taller brother looks from the gun to her. "You wouldn't happen to know where the devil is, by chance, would you?"

She pauses to search through a planner on her desk. "Thursday," she reads. "Birdies tell me he has an appointment in Carthage, Missouri."

"Great, thanks" the giant says and points the gun to her forehead. It clicks softly.

The resultant expressions of shock and panic upon their faces are absolutely lovely—she gets the feeling she'll be seeing those looks quite often in the future. She takes a sip of Craig and nods. "Oh, yeah, right. You probably need some more ammunition…" the demon circles her desk to remove the box from a drawer.

"Uh, excuse me for asking, Crowley, but aren't you kind of signing your own death warrant?" Dean asks. "I mean, what happens to you if we go up against the devil and lose?"

She straightens. "One, he's going to wipe us all out anyways. Two—after you leave here, I go on an extended vacation to all points nowhere. And three—how about you don't miss?!" she shouts, eyes flashing in irritation. "Okay? MORONS!"

The Queen of the Crossroads tosses them the box of ammo and blinks out.

Time for some subtlety and hiding. Which are skills she excels at.

She doesn't tell the Winchesters the Colt won't kill Lucifer. She knows, just as she knows the gun wouldn't kill her. She knows they'll try and Lucifer wouldn't dare kill or touch them. Nor will Sam agree to serve as a vessel. So they'll be released…perhaps a bit worse for the wear, but…they'll find her afterwards. At some point. They'll want to find her and she'll have been underground—in hiding, in danger. She is putting her neck out there, but not pointlessly. It's a calculated risk. They'll be pissed off, for sure, but they will know she's on their side. After all, she's risking her neck to give them what they want, what they've been searching for. They will know she can be trusted marginally more than most demons.

This won't end without the Winchesters. They're the key to this apocalypse; with some pull on them, she might be able to help prevent it.

So she hopes.

The Colt doesn't work. Lucifer lives.

They know Crowley gave the gun to the Winchesters.

And Crowley is in deep shit (Again. As usual.) and so she goes in hiding, away in a small house in a Yiddish village. She has eyes and ears everywhere, despite this, and keeps an eye on the situation.

The chess match has begun, truly, now, and the pieces are at play on the board. Her entrance into the game has been announced, but they likely still think her a pawn.

It's always been that way. They've always underestimated her—angels, devils, and men alike.

That's their weakness, really. They disregard her. They dismiss the Winchesters. They write off a little angel who has begun to understand free will.

Michael, Lucifer, and the angels—they all think everyone is playing according to daddy's little plan, that the actors will go by the script. They don't understand that the script is being torn up; it's an improve show now.

Her brothers always underestimate others. Always. Every time. It will be their downfall.

If there's one thing Crowley can do, it's properly evaluate and understand others—allies and adversaries alike.

It's the one reason she's still alive today.

She gives them time to cool down before finding them. Apparently, she should have given them more time.

"…Bobby, we're in west Nevada. East is practically all there is," Dean says as she appears in their quaint little Impala.

"Yeah, well, you better get drivin'," the other man, Bobby, responds and they end the call. She makes a note to investigate the man.

There's a moment of frustrated silence, broken only by Dean's huff. Crowley grins.

"Say," she purrs from the backseat, startling both Winchesters, "I've got an idea."

The car swerves as Dean hits the brake, and Sam spins to put a knife through her. She watches from beside the car with an amused smirk, holding a smoking cigarette holder to her lips. (She's always enjoyed the elegant look of them, and she's feeling a bit nostalgic for the roarin' twenties at the moment—such interesting people, such loose morals, such a transitional era. What a time.)

"D'you get her?"

"She's gone!"

Knocking on the window with her knuckle, she relishes the look of shock on the morons' faces. "Fancy a fag and a chat?"

But the amusement fades as they stalk out of the car toward her, murder in their eyes. She backs away calmly, heels clicking on the pavement. "You're upset—we should discuss it. Not—here, but—"

"You wanna talk," Sam growls, knife still in hand, "After what you did to us?"

"What I—what I did to you?!" she exclaims, indignant. "I gave you the Colt!"

The moose, she realizes, is something to be feared, especially in his anger. "Yeah, and you knew it wouldn't work against the devil!"

"Excuse me! " she exclaims, defensive.

"Fess up. We lost people on that suicide run—good people!" Sam shouts.

"Who you take on the ride is your own business!" she spits back, but calms herself. "Look, everything is still the same. We're all still in this together."

"Sure we are," Sam growls and lunges to knife her.

She's always enjoyed the disappearing trick too much. But it saves her from getting a knife in the gut anyways.

"Call your dog off, please!" she sighs and Dean pulls his brother back, thinking.

He is furiously calm. "Give me one good reason," he demands.

She straightens her coat and smirks. "I can give you Pestilence." Thank God for Gabriel and his insight earlier a few years ago.

"What do you know about Pestilence?"

"I know how to get him—that's got your interest, doesn't it?"

They bicker and it momentarily amuses her but only for a moment. "Shut up the both of you!" she shouts furiously. They quiet. "Look, I swear, I hoped the Colt would work," she vows. "It's an honest mistake! It's all part of the learning process—but nothing's changed. I still want the devil dead. Well, one thing has changed—now the devil knows I want him dead. Which, by the way, makes me the most fucked bugger in all of Creation!"

"Holy crap, we don't care," Dean rolls his eyes.

"They burned down my house!" she screams. "They ate my tailor! Two months under the rocks, like a bloody salamander—every demon on hell and earth's got his eyes out for me! Thank you both, so fucking much for that.

"And yet, here I am—" she screams furiously, motioning around them with a flippant wave of her hand, "In the last place I should be, in the middle of the road, talking to Sam and Dean fucking Winchester under a bloody spot light!"

Frustrated beyond belief, she blows out said light, which does wonders for letting out her frustration, really.

She pauses, bringing the cigarette holder to her lips and breathing in a long drag, calming herself down, before she continues. "So come with me, please." Silence. She sighs. "Do you want the Horsemen rings or not?"

They are shocked and she rolls her eyes. "Yes, I know all about that." She doesn't add that Gabriel told her long ago. "So, shall we?"

"Now how do you know about the rings?" Dean demands, after she supposedly leads them to her hide-out location.

She smirks, removing her coat. Conjuring a comfortable armchair, she seats herself before the fireplace, legs crossed elegantly. Today, the Winchesters have the luck of seeing another of her more lascivious dresses—a wine red satin slip that hugs her curves. Her breasts nearly spill out of it and her legs are miles long below the hem. The stilettos help.

With the motion of crossing her legs, both men's eyes are drawn to her body and she smirks wider. She knows their weakness for a pretty woman and she isn't above using that. It's a rare source of amusement, anyways. Especially these days. She'll take her laughs where she can get them. "I'm flattered, boys, but my eyes are up here."

Both flinch and she gives a throaty chuckle. "To answer your question. Well. I've been keeping a close eye on you lot."

Sam shook his head. "We've got hex bags, we're hidden from demons."

"All but one," she points to herself smugly. "That night you broke into my house—our first date, shall we say—my assistant hid a tracking device in your car. A magical coin that easily trumps your bag of bones. Allows me to hear things too—and my, the things I've heard."

Crowley laughs lowly. "So you wanna cram the devil back in his box? Cunning scheme," she admits, not that it's theirs. "I want in."

Dean observes her warily, thinking. "You said you could get us Pestilence."

"Well, I don't know where Pestilence is, per say…but I know the demon that does. He's what you might call the Horsemen's stableboy. He handles their itineraries, sees to their needs. He's who you want. Believe me, he'll tell us where Sneezy's at."

"Well how do we get him to spill?" Dean asks, not buying it for a second. "Rip out his toenails?"

"No, no. Nuts on his pay grade don't crack. We bring him here, then I sell him."

"Sell him," Sam repeats, eyebrows raised skeptically.

"Please," she purrs lowly, leaning forward. The motion again draws their eyes downwards, to her breasts, though they aren't distracted. It simply drive her point home. "I've sold sin to saints for centuries. Think I can't close one little demon?"

Dean finally nods. "Alright, where's this demon of yours?"

She smirks.

"Moose is not coming," Crowley informs them, matter-of-fact.

"Why the hell not?" he growls.

"Oh, shut it, Gigantor," she snaps.

Sam sighs, aggravated. "Really? Why is it always my height you comment on, Crowley?"

Her eyebrows rise. "D'you really want to know, Jolly Green Giant?"

"Sure, yeah," he shrugs.

She smirks and strides right up to him, pressing her curves against his body, heels giving her a lift, but she still had to crane to put her lips by his ear. "Because, Samuel…were circumstances different…I'd climb you like a tree." With that, she nips his jaw quickly and retreats away.

"What the fuck—" Sam exclaims, a hand over the spot where a mark will form in a short while, to her amusement.

She laughs. She can't help but tease them. It's too easy.

"Focusing," Dean comments sharply. "Why isn't he coming?"

Rolling her eyes, she explains impatiently, "Because I don't like you. I don't trust you. And…oh yes, you keep trying to kill me!" she shouts in his face and shrugs innocently. "Can you blame a girl?"

She has her reasons to hate them both, but she's still a little peeved about him trying to stab her twice.

"There's no damn way," he snaps. "This isn't gonna happen!"

She smiles patronizingly. "I'm not asking you, because you're not invited! I'm asking you." The demon looks to Dean. "So what's it gonna be?"

They share a glance and 'no' is written on their faces.

She sniffs. "Gentlemen, enjoy your last few sunsets," and turns, striding away, heels clicking. Wait for it…

And…

"Wait."

She stops.

"I'll go," Dean acquiesces.

"Door's open!" she calls to Dean, wiping her knife off, the only thing with any blood on it. Her dress is spotless.

He stares at the corpses of the security personnel.

"What?" she snaps impatiently.

"You killed them?" he asks in disbelief.

Crowley sighs. "Come on, we're on a tight schedule." As he glances back, she tuts, "Now you're squeamish? Please."

She shoves him in the elevator, makes her excuses, and sends him up for Brady.

Of course, she knows it won't work. But there's a reason she doesn't explain all her plans to a Winchester.

So when he inadvertently lures Brady downstairs, she pounces from behind him, throws a devil's trap bag over his head and promptly bashes his brains in. Blood soaks through the burlap and he collapses.

Dean stares up at her from the floor as he stumbles to his feet. "What the hell was that?"

"That was perfect," Crowley replies smugly as she observes the unconscious demon sprawled upon the floor.

"Perfect?" the hunter spits, bloody, bruised, and furious. "He didn't want the rings—he wanted me!"

"Imagine the surprise on your face," she ponders idly. She can see it right now.

"What?!"

"Your ignorance and misinformation—I mean, it's completely authentic, you can't fake that!" she muses. "What? It went like clockwork!"

"Not for me, you son of a bitch!" he yells.

She shakes her head, chastising. "That's what you get, working with a demon."

Really. What had he expected?

"Where's Dean?" Sam demands when she enters.

Crowley doesn't answer his question. "Now, for the record, I'm against this. Negotiating a high level defection…it's very delicate business."

When she blocks his way to the door, he demands, "What're you talking about?"

"I begged Dean not to come back. He should be miles away—from you. He replied with a colorful rejoinder about my 'cornshoot'. So…go ahead. Go ruin our last, best hope."

He glares but passes her, to find the demon who he's thought his friend in college. "It's only the end of the world," she adds, feeling the beginning of a migraine.

Maybe she's allergic to Winchesters.

"Maybe you should be a little less worried about our necks, and be a little bit more worried about yours," Brady snaps at her. "…No one will know greater torment than you. Lucifer is never going to let you die."

As if he was ever going to let her die in the first place, even before this.

She's never been that lucky.

Crowley returns to, surprisingly, find things more or less as she'd left them, though Brady seems a bit more bloody.

"God, the day I've had," she sighs in lieu of a greeting.

Both hunters jump.

Her dress is a bit torn, and there's specks of blood on her face and hands. Crowley's hair had been stacked neatly upon her head in an intricate knot, but it was falling down her neck now, almost post-coital in its messiness.

She stalks forward toward Brady. "Good news, my dear. You're going to live forever." The Queen of the Crossroads can't hold in the smug chuckle.

"What did you do?" their prisoner growls.

"Went over to a demons' nest, had a little massacre. Must be losing my touch though, let one of the little toads live. Oops," she smirks. "Also might have given said toad the impression you left your post last night because you and I are…wait for it…'lovers in league against Lucifer'." She smiles, showing all her teeth. "Hello, darling.

"So now, you get to be on the boss's eternal torment list—with little ol' me."

He shakes his head. "No, no no no no no…"

"Something else we have in common, aside from our torrid passion, of course: craving self-preservation. So, now. Why don't you tell me where Pestilence is?"

She's quite pleased for the chance to retrieve her hell hound and sic it on the other breasts when they attack their hiding place.

She's even more pleased when Brady gives them Pestilence's location.

Content with that, she leaves Brady in the Winchesters' capable hands, confident Brady won't last long. She doesn't have a problem with it. She has other business to see to.