ST. LOUIS - MORNING

It was the beginning of another sunny day at Heathcliff Studios, a quaint old movie lot in Missouri that had been back in business for the last three years. The architecture was in the Spanish style, stucco walls, with a high-rise at the hub of the lot. There were a few crew members going about their work outside - a woman from the wardrobe department moving a large rack of clothes, a landscaper with a leaf blower, some set decorators - but not much activity. A group of people left one of the sound stages and walked together, talking. A familiar figure at the center of the group was essentially holding court.

"I've been told by Standards and Practices we're crossing the line with Butcher's costume," Crowley said. "Apparently, focus groups found the human-skin jacket to be in bad taste. We need to think of something less objectionable, but equally dynamic..."

Yes, the Crowley of this dimension. He looked a heck of a lot happier than the one we're used to seeing. He was clean-shaven, a bit more casual, and well-rested. He smiled more easily.

"They're aware of the hell theme, yes?" one man asked. He was swarthy and had that somewhat elusive, know-it-when-you-see-it look of a doctor. "They get their way in this, sooner or later, anything's on the chopping block."

"I hear what your saying, King," Crowley said. "But it's a small issue with wardrobe. We're playing ball so they can't say we're difficult."

"They're the ones splitting hairs," King said. "Besides, it's the principle of thing."

"We're not principled," Crowley explained, in a slightly exasperated tone. "The network's looking for a fight, so we're not giving them one."

Another guy in the crowd snickered. "What are we, French?" the guy said.

Crowley stopped in his tracks, staring at the guy. Everyone stopped with him.

"Who the hell is he?" Crowley asked.

"Shipley," the guy said.

"Lydecker," Crowley said.

Another guy in the group stepped forward. "He's your new P.A., sir," Lydecker said.

Standing next to each other, these two guys fit the same basic description - six foot tall, blond male in his mid-forties, corporate dress - but they wore it so differently. The first one, Shipley, was a Steve McQueen type, broad and well-built, on the scruffy side, with a smirky face and a New York accent. The second guy, Lydecker, had an English accent. Skinny, pale and very posh, he looked like a mod throwback. He had late-nineties Bowie-hair and wore a blue skinny-fit suit.

"What happened to Ellsworth?" Crowley asked Lydecker.

"You set him on fire, sir," Lydecker said. "It was tremendous."

"That's right," Crowley said, smiling nostalgically. He gave Shipley a cold look. "I don't know how you got a job here with that chauvinist, knuckle-dragging attitude, but your flapping lips reflect on me now."

Shipley laughed nervously. "It was a joke," he said. "You know... the French?"

Crowley looked at him like he was a jerk. "No one's laughing," he said seriously.

Crowley started walking again, but before anyone even tried to catch up, he stopped, looking like he forgot something.

"Do we have any landscapers on the payroll?" he asked thoughtfully.

A shot rang out.

Crowley stumbled forward, smoke rising from the back of his right shoulder. An electric shock went through him. King went to his side.

Crowley caught his breath. "On his heels, girls!" he yelled.

Two biker chicks happily tore off after the gunman. The others gathered around Crowley.

"King," Crowley said, "bring the car around. Noole, you're with me. Legion, you're on security. Lock us down - nothing gets in, nothing gets out." He turned to Shipley and Lydecker. "Dempsey and Makepeace, to the front gates. You see any pigs: damage control. Officially, this was a special effects malfunction. And the rest of you, spread out!...I want that landscaper!"

Everyone sped off with their orders. Shipley and Lydecker ran off for the front gates. Lydecker took a wallet out of his jacket, checked the badge and I.D. inside it and handed it to Shipley. They stopped when they reached the curb.

"Why's King gotta drive the guy?" Shipley asked, winded. "I heard Crowley could do that, uh... that 'Nightcrawler' thing."

"He can," Lydecker said, "but nothing can teleport on studio grounds. It's a spell."

"Right about now, you gotta wonder over crap like that," Shipley said.

Lydecker shook his head. "Nah," he said. "See, that sniper's not human. And now? He's not getting out of the studio alive."

"You think?" Shipley asked, keeping an eye peeled for police cruisers.

"Dolly and Mog are after 'em," Lydecker said. "We'll be lucky if there's anything left to torture... You were a detective?"

Shipley grinned. "Manhattan," he said. "How'd you know?"

"I was an inspector for the London Met," Lydecker said. "You have the look." He put a hand out. "Thomas."

"Fred," Shipley said, taking his hand.

"Well. Welcome to the Inferno, Fred."

BOBBY'S PLACE - MORNING

Everyone gathered around Bobby's laptop to watch video he'd cued up of some TV show. There was an arena packed with screaming fans, some holding signs. The place looked like a dark cavern, with giant torches, armored guards and bones coming through the walls. The camera panned over the crowd, and then to a pit with a young garage band. They had a slightly goth look, like the venue, and most of them were the dark and brooding, 3rd Eye Blind wannabe types, but the lead singer was a washed-out, snotty-looking blond guy.

"Are you ready for Damnation?!" he roared into the microphone. The audience went nuts. "Are you ready for the Inferno?!" There was more cheering. "Are you ready... for the Devil?!" Cue the sound of people losing their little minds. He lowered his voice, trying for a gravelly, Marilyn Manson thing. "He's the host of our show, the man who'll have you saying, 'Get thee behind me.' I want you to applaud like your lives depend on it - 'cause they do! Put them hands together, for our Lord and Downfall, Mr. Crowley, the King of Hell!"

Sam and Dean looked at each other: holy crap, did that kid just call Crowley the Devil on TV?

The camera panned to the entrance, effectively made up to look like the mouth of a cave. As expected, Crowley walked out to thunderous applause. Carrying a cordless microphone, he wore a black wool Milford coat with his suit, and a red waistcoat and necktie - he looked very Satany, thank you. Crowley took a moment or two to bask in screaming adoration.

Meanwhile, Sam and Dean looked extra-pissed.

"It's good to be back," Crowley said, shutting the crowd up. "Hiatus was a bitch." There was agreement cheering. "We'll begin here in a moment, we're just waiting on my lovely co-host." This warranted cheers and whistles. "My partner in crime, my totem in the event that any Inception-like scenario should occur." He got a decent laugh for that one. "He's a delicate rose amongst the dick-weeds and he likes to make an entrance. Give it up hard for my special angel... Balthazar!"