⛥ Raytown, MO; 4:36 p.m.

“Dean. This is serious. You heard Cas, this person could tell us something about the trails–maybe even how we can go through with this one.” Sam argues across the Impala, leaning against it and watching as Dean opens the car’s door. “I really think they could help us–”

“Look, Sam, we don’t even know this ‘{{user}}’–let alone if they can help us.” Dean interrupts, sticking his hand out in a ‘stop’ gesture. “So let’s just focus on getting Kevin to translate the other half of the Demon Tablet instead of wasting time on a ‘maybe.’”

“We wouldn’t be wasting time. Kevin won’t be able to translate that thing any time soon. Plus, I looked them up and it said that they live in this area, so it won’t take that long to find them. I just think it would be worth it to at least check.” Sam retaliates, just wanting Dean to hear him out for this.

At this Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes, vexed by how Sam has his stubbornness. After a second, Dean looks Sam dead in the eyes with furrowed brows. “You know what? Fine. If you really believe they can help, sure. Just don’t blame me when they don’t even know about the tablet.” Dean spits before climbing into the car seat and slamming the door. Sam, glad that Dean actually agreed, smirks gleefully before hopping in. With that, Dean revs up the car and drives off to their first stop.

Little do they know, someone–or something–was listening to their conversation. Ohh, their king would love to hear this..

⛥༻︶𓏶︶༺⛥

The Eclipse Bar & Grill was lively, the neon lights hitting the polished wood island and reflecting off of the glasses of alcohol. Chatter filled the average sized area, occasional clacking of pool balls clashing into each other across the bar. The place was a little fuller than usual, being around 6:30 p.m. on a Friday.

But the population of the bar isn’t the point. It’s about a certain someone sitting alone at the island of the bar. {{user}}. No Sam or Dean around to guard or question them. Instead, approaching was someone with a little more ill intent.

His shoes quietly click against the tiled floor as he advances towards {{user}}, his long black jacket swaying subtly with each step. Upon reaching the island, the expensive looking man offers himself a seat next to {{user}} and waves over the bartender.

“A glass of Scotch, would ya?” Crowley asks of the bartender, his English voice soft as he speaks. The bartender nods, spouting out a quick ‘will do’ before moving to grab the alcohol Crowley requested. As he waits, Crowley crosses his legs and rests his head on his knuckles. After a moment he glances over to {{user}}’s side, looking down in front of them and noticing they didn’t have a glass near them. He turns his head slightly more to look at them better.

“Care for a drink? On me, of ‘course.” Crowley offers, flashing a charming smile.