A/N: I haven't forgotten about it~ Just busy with Life. I hope it's worth the wait and that you've all been well. ^3^

I own neither Supernatural nor Blue Exorcist~

Crowley loved menial tasks. They were meditative in their monotony, and the pedestrian nature of them helped put things in perspective – problems like the Apocalypse seemed so infinitely much bigger when compared to the issue of having enough potatoes to feed three hunters and an anachronistic exorcist.

Word from the Winchesters was they were heading back to base, and Stuart had been put in charge of preparing food. Most people don't like it when somebody hovers at their shoulder while they work; you'd think they would be even less enthusiastic about it when it's a demon doing the hovering, but Stuart seemed oddly untroubled by his presence.

It wasn't like Crowley wasn't trying. Stuart was just–

"Quite perky – considering the world's about to end. Though to be fair, being around Samael makes all other alternatives seem appealing. So – enjoying the 21st century so far?"

"Dunno." But smiling he was. "It doesn't look that much different from the 70's."

"Some like living in the past." Like a certain hunter who held a keen dislike both for the supernatural and for home design. "So, if the mindblowing technology of the future isn't the cause of your delight", Crowley commented as Stuart threw quizzical glances at Singer's antiquated microwave oven, "what is?"

Stuart snorted, and the smile grew into a wide grin.

"I'm gonna go on a job with Sam and Dean Winchester", he beamed.

"That's wonderful. I think you may have 'delight' confused with 'despair', but otherwise wonderful. True kamikaze spirit."

The humour wasn't lost on Stuart, although the more serious implication seemed to be. The boy laughed heartily, propping his elbows on the edge of the sink and slouching his weight on them.

"Sam and Dean are legendary where I come from", he smiled, eventually straightening up to carry on with his potatoes. "To meet them is an honour: to work with them is… If I didn't know better I'd think Sammy was tampering with my dreams again."

Crowley expertly suppressed the shudder that curled in his shoulders. Dream weaving was the Swiss army knife of torture. It turned the mind into a dungeon offering every tool imagination could conjure: a portable pocket version of Hell. If given a second chance to sell his soul, Crowley knew what he would have sold it for.

"If only", he mused in response. It was an absentminded after-thought, just the kind of tone and words that would kindle wary thoughts.

"You gonna say something, just say it." …Stuart didn't sound the least bit suspicious. Or curious. He sounded like he knew exactly what Crowley was going to say before he ever said it. "Come on." Stuart paused the potato peeling to shoot him a brief, unimpressed glance. "Why else would you try and bait me into asking?"

So, the boy knew his way around demons. Of course he did. Stuart's experiences with Samael's dream weaving seemed to have very little in common with his own, however, and Crowley was determined to find out why.

"I shouldn't need to say it, though", he drawled, inspecting the label of a whiskey bottle with a superior lack of interest for anything that was being said. "You're a smart guy." The little rat thought he was: no reason not to bolster that idea. "He might not be tampering with your dreams but he is tampering with your waking life – I'm sure you know that."

"Ye-up", Stuart agreed readily.

"Which means, you're not here to pick-pocket jewellery from the Reaper." Crowley refused to give up his drawl. Or his superiority. But he might give up Bobby Singer's whiskey bottle for the greater good of not-so-figuratively deflating Stuart's big head. "You're here because he wants you here: and if you know him as well as you think you do, you had better figure out what it is he wants with you before he gets it."

"Okay, for one, that super low whisper thing you do is ridiculous. Seriously. And two, I know he has ulterior motives: everyone who has ever known Sammy knows he has ulterior motives."

"Correction: everyone who ever thought they knew Samael is trapped, dead, or wishing they were dead." Crowley's voice was sharp and cold; urgent, hoping to jump-start the same urgency in Stuart and bypass his reasoning. "You can join that merry parade if you want, but if you'd rather get out of this alive you had better listen well. I can help you–"

"Because you obviously have my best interests at heart", he cut off. "Like all demons."

"Learnt that the hard way, did you?" The potato peeling made a brief but telling stop. A wry smile curled Crowley's lips. Been there, done that. "His games have started getting rough, have they? People getting hurt, people getting ruined – people getting killed… My advice is you pick your poison while you still can. Me or Samael? Whoever you believe will fuck you over gentlest."

If you want to know a man's true face, put him through the wringer. Crowley had seen them all in Hell, every stage a breaking mind passes through on its way to disintegration. The paths are many, the end station is the same. Samael had begun tightening the screws on Stuart, and it showed. When adding pressure the cracks were there, and Crowley could tell what kind of man this was. Stuart wouldn't break so much as he would shatter: a mass of gleaming edges flashed in his eyes when the boy glared at him. Edges that cut inwards as well as out, waiting patiently for a moment to retaliate – ferociously.

"If you pick Samael over me I'll consider myself flattered", Crowley added cordially.

Stuart, true to the diagnosis, didn't pick anything. He was as cooperative as a limping mule and ignored anything Crowley said for the next fifteen minutes, until the front door creaked open: then he froze everything he had been doing.

"Is that them?" he said tightly.

"So I would assume: come, come." Hearing the new arrivals go to meet Singer in the library, he herded the boy out of the kitchen and into the now empty hall. "And keep your voice down."

"What? What are we doing?" As confused as he was, he still followed suit and whispered.

"Learning the lay of the land." Crowley halted him in the far corner of the corridor, where they couldn't be seen from the library but were well within earshot.

More than just the Winchesters, their aloof bird of paradise was there – but out of angel powers. Interesting. The Pestilence operation had been a success, it seemed. Good, good. Only one more ring to go, then.

"We would learn the exact same things if we were in there with them", Stuart pointed out bluntly.

"Smart guy indeed. Now hush: I can't hear."

Something was bothering the Moose. Something Pestilence had said before he vanished: that it was too late. Crowley's eyes narrowed, thoughts darting. Too late, hm? Too late because something was going to happen with or without Pestilence at the wheel… Too late because something was already in motion…

"Aren't we supposed to help them stop the Apocalypse?" Stuart was getting impatient: the wiggling of his cigarette was like a metronome hooked up to his nervous system. Crowley remembered with perfect clarity why he hated kids.

"In the best of worlds: yes", he replied with a smile, although only the blind, deaf and drunk would take it for an earnest one. "Your point?"

"Then why are we whispering in the hallway?!"

Wasn't that obvious?

"Timing, mate. If you're going to make an entrance, the right moment is everything."

Stuart stared at him. Like a dumb fish, one with eyebrows stuck so high on its forehead they threatened to vanish under the messy bangs. Then he put a hand over his mouth and stifled a cough. Ah, correction: stifled a laugh.

"Oh god I see how you and Sammy got along."

"That's one way of putting it."

Samael would have approved of the euphemism, surely.

"Chicago's about to be wiped off the map", he heard Singer say. "Storm of the millennium. Sets off a daisy chain of natural disasters. Three million people are gonna die."

"I don't understand your definition of good news."

"Of course you don't." There was a fundamental reason why demons were more successful than angels in dealing with humans: angels had never been human.

"Well. Death, the horseman – he's gonna be there. And if we can stop him before he kick-starts this storm, get his ring back–"

"Yeah, you make it sound so easy." One had to appreciate the enthusiasm from the older Winchester – not even Birdie should be able to miss that.

"Hell, I'm just tryin' to put a spin on it."

"Well, not saying you aren't succeeding. I just don't get how you put all this together, Bobby?"

"That's our cue, Stuart. Let's go meet the Winchesters."

Tugging right the lapels of his suit, Crowley strode into the kitchen and into view from the library. He spotted Singer in the corner of his eye – looking a mite uncomfortable with the question. In his defence, he managed to sound at least a little light-hearted about it.

"I had, you know… help."

Crowley helped himself to a glass of Singer's whiskey: an elaborately untroubled action, with a delicate finishing clink to draw the attention of the assembly in the library. If the newcomers were puzzled by Stuart's presence it was nothing compared to how hostile they were to his own.

"Don't be so modest. I barely helped at all." Whiskey glass in one hand and the other comfortably tucked into his pocket, Crowley sauntered into the doorway. Ah, the looks on their faces – almost as enjoyable as the whiskey. "Hello, boys. Pleasure, et cetera." Much more enjoyable than the whiskey: after a brief whiff he decided it better to leave it on Singer's drawers. Besides, Birdie was shooting him glares that suggested he might be in for hostilities – no need to ruin his suit more than it already had been. "Go ahead." Crowley smiled. "Tell them. There's no shame in it."

"Bobby? Tell us what?"

Ah yes – the Moose always was the quicker thinker of the two. He had an inkling what was going on. Singer himself was outdoing Birdie in the dagger-glaring competition; Crowley rewarded him a smile and an encouraging little wiggle of his head.

"…World's gonna end", he said at long last. "Seems stupid to get all precious over one little… soul."

Delightful, to be at the centre of so much attention.

"YOU SOLD YOUR SOUL?!" Dean exploded.

"Oh, more like pawned it", Crowley assured with perfect sincerity. "I fully intend to give it back."

"Well then give it back!"

Dean got off his chair like a professional boxer ready to enter the ring: a professional boxer ready to enter the ring and lose, because Crowley held the winning cards and the Winchester boy knew it.

"I will." He didn't budge an inch, even with Dean's murderous face close enough to smell the hunter's breath.

"Now!"

Like dangling a steak above a dog and making it bark. As entertaining as that game was, Moose took the cake. Why concern yourself with your friend's soul when there were more important things to consider?

"Did you kiss him?"

"Sam!" Dean snapped.

"Kiss…?!" Stuart looked like he had swallowed a live slug.

This moment, Crowley decided, was worth every pain and ruined suit this whole Armageddon fuckery had cost him.

"Just wondering", Sam defended himself with a concerned scowl.

All eyes settled on Bobby Singer. It was beautiful. Beautiful. Singer looked at Sam, looked at Dean, looked at Birdie and the exorcist – you could see the panic scrambling all over his face for some place to hide.

There was none. And Singer knew it.

"No!" he burst out finally, and pulled all of his features together into the most convincingly incredulous grimace he could muster.

Crowley had anticipated such a reaction.

Clearing his throat, and raising his smartphone, he presented the evidence to the room. If only he had had two phones, he could have filmed the god-help-me look on Singer's face. And the incredulous looks of the Winchesters when they squinted at the selfie shot. And Stuart's look of blank-faced horror.

Once the Apocalypse was dealt with he would most definitely buy himself another phone. And new suits.

"Why'd you take a picture?" It was the voice of a very old, very tired man.

Crowley allowed himself a glance at the phone and a pause for effect.

"Why did you have to use tongue?"

All eyes swivelled from him to Singer. Except one pair.

"That's how you make deals with demons in this dimension?" To say Stuart was disturbed by the thought was an understatement; the figurative slug looked like it might be crawling its way back up.

Worth all the Armageddon fuckery.

"And who are you?!"

"Did he just say 'dimension'?"

The kid didn't know which Winchester to answer first; he was too busy trying not to be taut as a violin string. Ah, but Birdie seemed about to provide the answer for him. The angel had risen and approached Stuart with that constipated look of his.

"Dean, do you remember what I said of time? That it is fluid: that it can be bent, by certain beings." Stuart seemed increasingly bothered by having the angel all up in his face. "When you do, there are… traces."

"Great, great: you can admire my traces from a distance, okay?"

Birdie glanced down at the hand braced against his chest, then back up at Stuart. Angels and people skills – now there's the title of the world's shortest book.

"He is human." The angel stepped away. "But someone has worked powerful magic around him. Whoever did bent not just time but space, and brought him here from an alternate reality."

"English, if you don't mind", Singer grunted. "And for the record he passed the holy water test."

"He did, but what about the thing that sent him here? Just how powerful magic are we talking here, Cass?" Moose glued his eyes to the angel as if ignoring Stuart would prevent him from overhearing. "Angel powerful? Archangel powerful?"

"Guys, I can explain–"

"You would have to be an archangel, or something even more powerful, to transcend the vastness between realities."

"Okay just… What are we talking about here? The sequel to Butterfly Effect?" Dean, of course. Poor boy looked from one to the other in the hopes that somebody would put things in simple enough words for his plebeian brain.

"I don't know what that is but look, let me explain. I live in the 70's: not your 70's but the 70's of an alternate timeline. An alternate reality. Kinda like yours but not the same. I'm a hunter, sort of, and I got sent here by a demon king who specialises in manipulating time and space."

Oh now he had done it…

"Why?" If you want to make an enemy of Dean Winchester, just mention that you're in league with demons. "Why would a demon send you here?"

"So I could help you."

"Yeah? With what, exactly? What can you do that we can't?"

To Stuart's credit he didn't stutter out some half-assed attempt at an explanation, as one might have expected. He didn't say anything at all, but his tight-lipped silence was betrayed by a brightening red tint to his ears.

"I'll know when the time comes", he said at long last.

"Oh great! Just fucking great!" Dean threw his arms in the air and turned around. "See what happens when you team up with demons, Sammy?! Bobby's lost his soul, Cass has lost his powers, and now some other demon assbag has spies in our base!"

"Dean, calm down – and for the record I don't think this has anything to do with Cass'–"

"I'm not a spy!"

"Spies stay out of family business!"

"Is it too much to ask of you idjits to act like grown men?!"

Satan's vessel and his overprotective brother, a drunk in a wheelchair, and an exorcist handpicked by the trickster god of time: humanity's last hope.

Crowley recollected his whiskey glass. Just in time, too, because he was most definitely not drunk enough to deal with Stuart's next words.

"I just wanted to meet Dean Winchester! He's my favourite character and when I heard I could meet him I… What?"

The shouting match deflated into something that could quite accurately be described as a 'what?' filling the room from floor to ceiling, although the glances exchanged between the Winchesters added an undertone of 'not again'. Crowley lowered his whiskey glass: whatever bizarre story was buried here, he was determined to hear about it.

"You're kidding me? Another crazy fan?" Dean Winchester: a guy with severe temper issues. "Look, why don't you bugger off to your convention and let us do our job? 'Cause in case you haven't noticed, we're too busy to write autographs. Go play Cluedo and read creepy fanfiction or whatever."

"What? No, I'm here to he–"

"You know what? We don't need extra help." Dean Winchester's temper issues were in Crowley's face within seconds, along with an accusingly stabbing finger. "You send your spy back to the 70's and give Bobby his soul, now. Deal's off."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"But you can give his soul back", Moose pressed on.

"I can. But I won't."

"What did you say?" As if his poor suit hadn't suffered enough already, its lapels were now crinkled up in Dean's fists.

"I won't. It's my only insurance against you", Crowley declared, gaze firmly meeting Dean's. "I'm not an 'idjit'. You kill demons." He shot a look past the hunter's shoulder. "Gigantor over there has tried several times already and I doubt your guardian angel would mind terribly if he succeeded. So no, not giving that soul back. Not until all this is over."

"You son of a bitch", Singer growled.

"I'm pretty sure I can convince you to give it back", Dean hissed into his face. Ah, yes: that look. It was easy to forget that Dean Winchester had spent a year in Hell's dungeon gutter, but when he wore that look you could see it. The memories. The nightmares. The man he had become.

That was one of Samael's favourite quotes, wasn't it?

"He who fights with monsters might take care, lest he thereby become a monster. How's that going for you, cowboy?" Crowley smiled: a smile as thin and toxic as only truth can be.

"FOCUS, dammit!" It's no small feat, to shout in the middle of a cold war and be both heard and heeded. He wouldn't have expected something like that from Stuart, with his standoffish speech and gleaming shards, but that boy hid the makings of a commander. "Stop arguing about the past and start thinking about the future, okay? What little's left of it. We gotta work with what we have, not–"

"Have you been listening?! Bobby's soul–"

"He'll get it back. Crowley's got no place to run, does he?" Up close, Stuart's glare was more piercing than he had given him credit for. "If he does you can summon him right back and kick his ass."

…But those were some peculiar eyes, weren't they? Not quite human and not quite demonic. Just what kind of toy had Samael acquired…?

"This is none of your business, kid. Get out of my–"

"Dean, he's right." Moose put a hand on his brother's shoulder, ready to pull him away if necessary. Thank goodness at least one of them had a brain. "Crowley's not going anywhere. We should focus on stopping the Apocalypse – now that we actually know how."

A tense moment followed, hanging in the balance between truce and open war like explosive gas. Crowley met Dean's eyes unwaveringly, chin slightly raised in defiance.

"You got it." Dean released Crowley, though not after making sure his suit would be as rumpled as possible. "Let's get the last Horseman."