Sam and Dean would kill you if they knew you were here. But for whatever idiotic reason, you were compelled by Crowley's voicemail to show up.

And now you were perched on a bar stool nursing a drink. You didn't know what it was, Crowley had already ordered for both of you when you arrived. The King of Hell was drinking his own glass much faster than you.

"So, as much as it pains me to say this, I need your help," Crowley said in his rough Scottish accent.

You raised an eyebrow in amusement, "The King of Hell is asking a Winchester for help?"

"Campaign backing," he corrected. "There's no need for the 'H' word, Bluejay."

You rolled your eyes at the nickname. Crowley always had some stupid nickname up his tailored sleeves. Sam was Moose, Dean was Squirrel, and you... you were Bluejay. You had no clue how he settled on that one in particular, but no amount of griping would get him to drop it.

"And if I give you campaign backing?"

Crowley shrugged, a smug smile on his face. "You won't be left to deal with Abbadon, how about that?"