After promptly teleporting out of Dean's uncomfortably comfortable vehicle, Anthony J Crowley found himself in an even stranger abandoned warehouse of sorts. He had attempted to teleport back to his own time, and he hoped to be back at the Ritz with his dear Aziraphale, however it seemed that Beelzebub thought he hadn't quite learnt his lesson yet. Confused as to where he currently was, Crowley stumbled around in a shaky and tentative circle, taking in his surroundings: white brick walls; a disturbing-looking metal surgical table complete with chains and leather bindings; a washed-out grey concrete floor adorned with splashes of red (Crowley assumed it wasn't simply red paint or tomato sauce) at regular intervals. The demon began to get the feeling that he had gone from the frying pan into the fire. However, his growing sense of anxiety at the sight of his new scene didn't have time to grow exponentially before a figure strode nonchalantly into the room. The man was utterly smothered in black clothing (thank Go- thank Sa- thank someone – Crowley didn't really fancy seeing a man without clothes on); black trousers, black shirt, black tie, black suit jacket, black shoes. Never in his entire existence – of around 6000 years – had the demon seen anyone so dedicated to being completely clad-in-black. The odd fellow had to be applauded; internally, of course.
While Crowley was mentally summing up the man in front of him, he realised that he could see his true form, which was actually a demon. Despite being a demon himself, Crowley definitely felt worse off in the presence of another, especially after his whole ordeal with Hastur and Ligur. However, the certainly-not dynamic duo had been undeniably idiotic, yet the man before him clearly knew his place in life, which was naturally superior to others, since he (possibly unintentionally, but likely not) was surrounded by an ever-present air of superciliousness.
"Ah, what an unpleasant surprise. It seems I have unwanted company." The man's deep gravelly voice slid through the atmosphere and crawled towards Crowley's sensitive ears, dripping with slightly out-of-date sarcasm.
"You're-you're a demon!" Mentally kicking himself for saying the dumbest thing in the dumbest ever voice, Crowley reasoned with himself by thinking it was the only thing he could think of at that moment.
"And you're trying my non-patience. Who are you, pray tell? This is a no-demons-allowed zone." The other demon went on, his voice almost putting Crowley into a trance.
"B-but- you're a demon." Those were the only words Crowley could force from his satanic lips yet again, however this time, he did have a vaguely valid point and a different tone of voice with which to express them.
"Try King of Hell. But demon just about passes the test." The 'King of Hell' answered back, almost like a stroppy teenager that wanted to prove his worth to mocking siblings that had previously doubted him, yet he somehow managed to maintain his sense of supreme dignity. Crowley was distantly impressed by the man, however did remain slightly terrified of him. But something did click when he claimed to be the 'King of Hell', relating to his recent conversation with the Winchesters.
"Hang on… The King of Hell… You're Crowley?"
"In the overwhelmingly attractive flesh. I can give you an autograph, if you like. In fact, especially for you, I'll carve it into your pathetic heart. Are we done now?" Crowley – that is, 'Sauntered Vaguely Downwards', past-Crowley – was still rather shocked by Crowley's – that is, 'Hello boys', future Crowley – intense hostility. On the other hand, he admitted to himself that he would probably also act inimical to some degree towards an arbitrary stranger who had just appeared in his home (was it his home? It was hard to tell).