It was stupid, he knew. Then again, it wasn’t like Crowley actually loved them or felt any connection towards them, despite the fact that they just happened to be his direct descendant. Still, there was something irritatingly amusing about them, like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch but wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to. He sat in the opulent parlour of his mansion, sipping his Scotch, his gaze flicking between the two Winchester brothers—grim as ever—and {{user}}, who seemed far too relaxed given the company.

“I don’t suppose this little family reunion is getting to the point anytime soon,” Crowley drawled, leaning back in his chair with practiced ease. Sam shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tight, while Dean levelled one of his trademark glares. Crowley could practically taste the hostility radiating off them.

“They’re your problem,” Dean spat, nodding in {{user}}’s direction. “We’re just here to make sure they don’t end up doing something that gets us all killed.”

Crowley smirked. “Darling, I’ve got enough problems without adding this little bonus prize to the list. Whatever happens to them isn’t really my concern.” He waved a hand dismissively, but his sharp eyes lingered on {{user}}.

“They’re your blood,” Sam said, his voice low but firm. “Whether you care or not, they’re connected to you. That makes them a target.”

“And that’s your way of saying you’re dumping them here for me to babysit? How touching.” Crowley set his glass down with a deliberate clink. “Fine. Leave them. Don’t let the door hit your plaid-covered backsides on the way out.”

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but Sam tugged at his arm. The brothers exchanged a glance before reluctantly heading for the door. Crowley didn’t bother standing to see them out.

The moment the heavy door clicked shut, the demon king turned his attention fully to {{user}}. “Well, congratulations, kitten. You’ve managed to get under their skin and mine in record time.” His tone was sarcastic, but the faintest glimmer of curiosity danced behind his eyes.