ATLAS HOUSE - NIGHT

"Hello, boys," Crowley said. He was sitting in the chair Red had vacated, pouring himself a glass of Pimms. With a small, careless hand gesture, he slammed Sam and Dean back against the front door and pinned them there. "I think I needed that. Plans are well and good, but I was getting restless leg syndrome waiting for you chuckleheads to catch on."

"Crowley," Red said, "I did my best-."

"Stop talking," Crowley said. "Everyone, just..." He let out a haggard breath, tried to wave off his exhaustion. "Shut up. I've been listening to hippy seers and nut-job oracles, drunken Norns and giant, bossy fairies for five bloody weeks, and I've had it. It's my turn to talk." He took a sip of his Pimms. "Let's see, what's first on the agenda? Right. Red: set up their little porthole? Get it right, those extra thirty years are as good as yours."

Red looked back and Sam and Dean with sincere compassion, but not regret. "This wasn't what I wanted," he said matter-of-factly.

Sam smiled a pained, sarcastic smile at Red. "Blow it out your ass, Cueball," he said.

"Me-ow," Crowley snickered at Sam. "I thought the 'vivid visions' detail would smash your buttons." He pointed at Red merrily, "You're just gonna be Cueball from now on. I'm telling everyone."

Red took the top off the ottoman he'd sat on earlier. There was a nifty little ritual kit inside - matches, a dagger, a bundle of white sage, small blue candles, and a large obsidian plaque. The plaque was etched with strange words around its edges: chove xani ~ ch'orav ~ beng baxt. He removed the items and put the top back on, then placed the plaque on the ottoman and arranged the candles on its frame. He lit them and their wax began to drip toward the center of the plaque and pool up. Red lit and then put out the sage, then began to pace the room, spreading heavy curls of smoke.

Dean shifted uncomfortably against the wall. "There's gotta be a way to neutralize this crap where he flings us around," he said to Sam.

"Psychokinesis," Sam said bitterly. "The least he could do is get a friggin' nosebleed."

Dean winced. "Dammit, I think I'm on a nail," he said.

"The Lords of the Quarters are in agreement," Red said to Crowley.

"Good," Crowley said. "It's nice to hear those crazy kids have patched things up. Shorthand?"

"The errant thread of fate must be burned," Red said, sounding slightly annoyed. "Which is the errant one, I cannot say."

"But you can open a gateway to the other one?" Crowley asked. He put his drink down and got to his feet. "Make sure it's got the ground clearance to squeeze Jay and Mouthy Bob through."

"I'll need your blood on the plaque," Red said, and held his dagger out by the blade.

"Why mine?" Crowley asked, crossing the room to them. "Just stick a tap in the big one, he'll bleed all week."

Sam made a pissy face at that.

"You are the joint," Red said. "The only constant between the threads that we know of."

Crowley shook his head. "I hate doing this," he said. He looked sullenly at his left palm. "No Purell for a week."

He took the dagger and cut his palm over the plaque, letting his blood drip into the middle. When the blood touched the pooling wax, it all began to burn in blue flame.

"Mm-mm!" Crowley grunted. "Something smells yummy. Must be that secret ingredient." He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand. He stepped up to Sam and Dean, looking them over appraisingly. "The old gang, back together again. I think I'm getting the vapors."

"What's with all strange brew?" Dean asked, sneering. "You get tired of shavin' your back, maybe wanna go halves on some Bommaritos?"

"I think I've missed your class the most," Crowley said. "But enough with old business. I'm in the position to offer you boys a rare opportunity to change the world. See, at some point in the past, a thread of fate split in two-."

"The chase?" Sam snapped.

"I'm throwing you into another world," Crowley said.

Sam and Dean glanced at each other, baffled.

Crowley arched a brow. "Exposition's not so boring now, is it?" he said. "At some point in our past, before the Apocalypse, Dean did something that changed the planet ever so slightly and here we stand. But had he not done this teensy, tiny, insignificant thing, the both of you would've died at Stull. Two timelines, equally possible, different in the extreme. But now they're getting too similar, pressing on each other, trying to occupy the same space, like... some sort of... sweaty metaphor I can't be bothered to come up with. The pressure needs relieving. One of the timelines has to be jettisoned to save the other or we're all smushed. And I want you two to decide which one."

"The other one," Dean answered.

"Not that easy," Crowley said. "I want you to see the other timeline first, kick the tires. Get the feel. It's all up to you, whichever world you think is better. The catch is, you don't exist in the other one. So if you end up deciding door number two is the best of all possible worlds and want it to come true, you have to kill yourselves."

Dean and Sam gave Crowley the "what are you smoking" frown.

"Don't ask me," Crowley said, "them's the rules. And if you decide that this is the better world, find the other me and kill him, you'll come straight back."

"How 'bout I just kill you now?" Dean asked. "Save us the cab fare?"

"Not you, Jughead," Crowley said. "It's Sammy's destiny. The only way back here, is if Moose kills me. And anyway, neither of you gets a crack at me until you're in the other branch. All clear on the rules? Are we ready to play?"

"What's in it for you?" Sam asked.

"Worlds are in the balance," Crowley said, trying (not very hard) to sound scandalized. "Besides... I feel we've grown apart these last few years. This is something we can all do as a family."

"Let's just get this over with," Dean said.

"So keen," Crowley said. "That's why you've always been my favorite henchmen. Don't worry, we're just about ready to start. But first, tell me one thing." He looked Sam and Dean over again and gestured between them. "Just between us, which one of you is the Little Spoon?"

Sam and Dean could barely move, but after that last dig, they did their damnedest. If it had been at all possible to strangle him, one of them would've done it.

Crowley seemed very pleased with himself. "Why don't I just liquify them on the spot?" he asked Red. "Really show fate who wears the y-fronts?"

"You're welcome to try," Red said, unable to suppress a slight smirk.

A delighted grin spread across Crowley's face. He pointed his dagger at Sam, then Dean, back and forth, on and on, whispering a lot to himself, the words "if he hollers, let him go" clearly audible in there. At last, he settled on Sam.

Red dropped a large silver coin in the middle of the plaque, eyes shifting to Crowley as he did. Atlas House rumbled around them like they were experiencing a mini-earthquake. Paintings swayed and knick-knacks fell from the walls.

Crowley stumbled back, incredulous at the commotion around him. Wary now, he raised his dagger toward Sam's throat. The quake began again and the coin on the plaque began to vibrate. He moved the dagger away and it stopped. Moved it back; the quake. Away; stillness. Crowley looked at Sam and Dean, who were looking back at him, and at each other, all three of them clueless.

"What's doing that?" Crowley thought aloud.

"Rube Goldberg?" Red said smugly.

Crowley turned a wrathful scowl on Red. "If you're behind this-." he began.

"I'd only be hurting myself," Red said. "I know. Excuse my bit of schadenfreude at the devil's expense. We might as well get back to opening the gateway. You can always try to kill him again afterward."

Crowley turned back to Sam, but glared at Red out of the corner of his eye: he seemed to have changed his mind about who he wanted to kill.

"Cackle while you can, Witchy Poo," Crowley said. "We'll see how funny you think this tomorrow night when you're kibbles and bits."

"I have one day left," Red said firmly. "And if they break the thread, I earn my thirty years. That was our agreement."

"Then fire up the grill," Crowley said. He backed a safe distance from the Winchesters.

And Red knelt by the plaque and recited:

"Munu osanirakrar vaxa..."

As he spoke, the silver coin began to spin on its edge.

"...Bolsmun alls batna..."

"You're about to enter another dimension," Crowley said. "A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind..."