Liv stood in the kitchen, her head pressed against the heavy cellar door. She was being nosy, she knew it, but something was happening down there, something big. She thought it had to do with Crowley, the King of Hell. Scratch that; she knew it had to do with Crowley.
The door shuddered, startling her, and she jumped back. A bang shortly followed, echoing through the room and into the walls around her which trembled from the force. Dozens of tiny tendrils of white smoke wafted up from the narrow crack beneath the door. Liv wrinkled her nose when the smell of rotten eggs filled her nostrils. It felt like the delicate hairs inside her nasal cavity were slowly being singed away. The wooden door grew hot beneath her palms. She quickly stepped away and tiptoed across the linoleum to the table and pulled out a chair to sit.
Dean had made her swear on his life that she wouldn't come downstairs, no matter what happened so, even when the shouting began, she didn't move from her seat. Crossing one knee over the other and, without even realizing she was doing it, she started tapping her foot, nervously, against the sturdy table leg.
"Look, you really want Cas running the universe?" Bobby growled, his eyes boring in Crowley's.
"Of course not," Crowley said and took a long swallow from his glass. He'd carried it over with him, along with the bottle, from wherever he'd been holed up. Dean stared longingly at the bottle. A good, robust drink would do them all a bit of good, he thought.
"Then you know this is the only chance we have," Dean said. He could understand Crowley's apprehension. Cas had proven himself to be a cruel and vengeful god. Even the King of Hell wouldn't be immune to his wrath.
"And suppose it is," Crowley grumbled. "Why do you think I would-." Abruptly, he quieted and cocked his head to the side, as if listening closely to something he'd only faintly heard. Dean turned his gaze upward and, in his head, released an impressive string of imaginative curses. He'd heard it too; a soft but steady tapping coming from the kitchen, directly above them.
"What?" Sam said, looking around the basement.
"Someone's upstairs," Crowley said, his eyes narrowed. "But, the three musketeers are all right here. So, pray tell, who could it be?"
"No one," Dean said, almost shouting. "No one you need to worry about."
Crowley smiled, a wicked grin that filled Dean with an overwhelming urge to punch him in the face.
"But I am worried," Crowley said. "Why don't you ask your little friend to come down and say hello. It would be impolite not to."
"No!" Bobby said, his tone flat and expressionless but Dean saw his hands clench into fists and his fingers whiten with the exertion. Dean imagined Bobby was feeling a similar, violent urge to bury his knuckles deep within Crowley's smug, smirking face.
"Yes," Crowley said, shortly. "It's only fair that I know who I'm dealing with. Besides, what can I do from here?" He spread his arms innocently and nodded down at the demon's snare which circled him in bright red paint.
Dean rubbed his hand over his mouth and chin. This was the absolute last thing he'd wanted to happen. He should have sent her away, he realized, but it was too late. Crowley's cooperation seemed to depend entirely on whether or not they let him meet Liv. On a deeper level, he could see why the demon king would be uncomfortable; anyone could be up there – another hunter, an angel, even Cas, for all Crowley knew. But he couldn't think of a single way to assure Crowley that he wasn't in danger of being attacked by a fourth party without revealing Liv's identity.
"Alright, fine," Dean said, after a few seconds of deep thought. "But, you be nice." He pointed at Crowley and glared, threateningly. Crowley only grinned in response.
Dean stomped up the stairs and shoved on the door. It flew open and slammed into the wall beside it. A framed photo was sent to the floor where the glass shattered into a thousand pieces and the wood splintered. Liv jumped and her hand fluttered to her chest.
"Jesus, Dean," she said. "You scared me; are you guys okay?"
She looked so small and fragile, sitting at the table in her floral, silk sundress and bare feet. He was tempted to ask her to change into something more substantial, like one of his garage jumpsuits or a suit of chainmail armor.
"You wanted to meet him, right? Well, here's your chance."
"Really?" she asked. He was unnerved by her excitement. He wanted her to be frightened and uncomfortable, as she should be. He wanted her to understand that he was leading her into the lion's den, and she was only a defenseless, baby gazelle, in danger of being eaten up.
"Yeah. Now, listen to me. Are you listening?" he demanded. She jumped up and hurried over to him.
"I'm listening!" she said.
"Alright, here's how this is gonna go down - You say hello. You tell him your first name, only. You do not try to shake his hand. You do not go anywhere near him. You do not answer any questions he asks you. Got it?" He tried to be stern, to emphasize the importance of his instructions.
"Yes. I got it!" she replied. She was trembling but not with fear, he thought. More like excited anticipation. Adrenaline.
"Okay, let's go. Stay right by me."
Together, they descended the narrow staircase, hands clasped tightly together. Hers was cool and dry; his was clammy and damp. He hadn't realized how terrified he was of having Crowley and Liv in the same room at the same time.
He's secure, Dean thought to himself. He's in the snare; he can't get out. She's fine, as long as she does what I say.
Dean looked down at their feet, the part of her body that Crowley would see first. He had failed to tell her to put on shoes. He cursed under his breath. She looked at least as weak as she was, even frailer than a gazelle, more like a baby bird stranded in the middle of a hot sidewalk. No shoes, a short, skimpy dress with thin straps, her hair, wild and free, hanging down to the small of her back; she looked like a well-worn doll that would fall over and shatter at the slightest nudge.
"This is such a huge mistake," he whispered, but it was too late. With each step down, more and more of Crowley's expensive, black suit became visible. When they reached the bottom, Dean finally looked up and saw him, smiling in the most well-mannered, demure way possible.
"Hello there, my dear," Crowley drawled, full of charm and charisma.
"Hello, Mr. Crowley," Liv answered. Dean was relieved to hear her speak to him with esteem, and in the most respectful tone.
"Ahh, so you know who I am. Please, introduce your friend, Dean."
"This is Liv," Dean said, roughly.
"Liv? But, surely that must be a hypocorism?" Crowley asked, turning once again toward her.
"What the hell is that?" Dean demanded.
"A nickname, a shortened version of her given name," Crowley answered, impatiently. "Your brother was truly blessed with the only viable brain in your family, wasn't he? Have you taught him nothing in all these years, Moose?" Crowley directed his attention toward Sam, who remained uneasily silent.
"It is," Liv answered, quietly, when he turned back to her with his eyebrows inclined. "It is a hypocorism; it's actually short for Olivia." She seemed to have finally understood the monumental significance of the situation.
"Ahh, I thought it must be. Would you mind if I called you Olivia, darling?" Crowley asked. His voice exuded charm and allure. "It's such a lovely name, one of my favorites."
"This is the only chance you'll ever have to call her anything," Bobby said, sternly.
Liv ignored him, entirely. "No, of course I don't mind. Thank you," she said. She took a step toward the snare. Dean held tightly to her elbow but she pulled away.
"Stop there, Livvie," Bobby said when she was barely two feet away. As she approached, Crowley bent down to set his glass and the solid bottle on the ground at his feet.
"I'm fine," she said, almost dreamily.
"Liv.." Dean said in a foreboding tone, but she ignored him completely.
She reached out with her right hand, as the demon did the same. Sam and Dean rushed forward but stopped, abruptly, as her hand disappeared into Crowley's. They both held their breath and the basement was silent, as if the room itself anticipated a violently destructive encounter.
Dean watched as Crowley took Liv's hand into his own and raised it, ever so slowly, toward his mouth. The second lasted an eternity but he didn't dare move. He was petrified, certain that the gentlemanly performance would sharply veer off into a more characteristic and vicious attack.
Crowley lowered his head and gently pressed his lips against her hand. He held them there, as Bobby, Sam and Dean watched helplessly. And then, abruptly, it was over and Liv had taken a step backwards. Crowley released her hand and bowed.
"Meeting you has been a true delight, Olivia. You're an exquisite young lady," he said, with his most pleasant and amiable smile.
"You, too, Mr. Crowley," Liv said. She smiled up at Dean as she brushed by and briefly clasped his hand. Dean appreciated the notion, what he took as her way of telling him that she was alright, but hoped that Crowley hadn't caught it. It was a deeply personal gesture and he didn't want Crowley to know how close they'd gotten. He was sure it would make her even more of a target.
They all watched her ascend the staircase, her bare feet padding on the wooden steps. When Dean heard the cellar door snap shut above them, he turned back to Crowley.
"Alright. Ready to talk, now?" he asked. He was angry, but he wasn't sure at whom. Liv, for not listening? Crowley, for forcing him to introduce her? Himself, for creating the situation in the first place? Any combination of the three? It didn't matter – he was mad as hell, regardless.
"Absolutely. Let's talk," Crowley said, with a devious smile in Dean's direction.