"Who the hell are you and how the hell did you get in my car?!" The older brother blurted out, a combination of infuriated – because some random person, who was evidently a demon or angel, had just materialised in his beloved Impala and would leave his dirty stench (though the man didn't smell too bad… not in a weird way or anything) all over his car – and extremely perplexed – how did this man even get in the Impala when it was fairly well demon-proofed? (Dean had just automatically assumed the man was a demon by this point, since it wasn't the first time one had spontaneously popped up in the back seat of his car) – which wasn't the best tasting cocktail of emotions. On hearing his brother yell so aggressively, Sam jolted awake from his temporary nap and twisted back and forth, bleary-eyed, in his seat, also wondering what the hell was going on. In response to Dean, the strange man simply glanced around distantly, spouting an odd jumble of phrases that were not at all related to Dean's question.
"Well, the interior's rather nice, I must admit… I get the feeling this one's been rebuilt at some point as well as mine… Oh, I see you have a few cassette tapes – hopefully they aren't all Queen records. Then again, I suppose that only happens to me…" After a few moments, the older brother had had enough of the man's ramblings.
"Alright, you better start talking, or I'll start carving you up with this knife pretty damn quick. Understand?" In order to emphasise his threat, and prove it wasn't an empty one, Dean traced torturous patterns mid-air with the tip of the blade, handling it as nonchalantly as possible. The man's expression promptly grew 200% more fearful (even with the sunglasses) as he watched the moonlight reflect sinisterly off the knife. When he spoke, his voice was several octaves higher.
"Oh, uh, well, er, I don't think that, er, that's really necessary, do you? Aha, I'll tell you what you like, just don't… Just, put the knife away, yes? I'm as confused as you are about these whole shenanigans, I'm sure we can talk it out…" The man suddenly got far more edgy as he frantically searched for an excuse not to be killed; all he wanted at that moment was to get away from such strange and violent men and get back to the Ritz, where he could simply participate in a pleasant conversation with his dear friend Aziraphale, but unfortunately, life doesn't work like that. Realising he was actually going to have to explain himself – since he had merely been stalling before – the demon sighed.
"Okay. Well. My name is Anthony J Crowley, and I think I'm in the wrong place, or time. Something is definitely wrong here."
"You don't say…" Dean muttered under his breath sarcastically, but then a certain phrase caught his attention. "Hang on – did you say Crowley?"
A/N:
Okay, so I should probably mention this fic is set in season 6 of Supernatural, you know, the one where Crowley's all evil (but not purely evil like season 8, more megalomaniac evil) and fake-dead and chilling with Cas. Yeah, I think that should clear up any confusion, if there was any, of course. Anyway, see you later!