Crowley had expected many things when he ascended the throne of Hell.

Betrayal, scheming, endless petitions, and, of course, the constant parade of hunters trying to outwit him; but he had never expected this. The scent hit him first, faint but undeniably Winchester: iron, gunpowder, and something older, sharper, almost like blood remembered. At first, he was sure to meet with Dean or Sam, but no.

He found you alone in a diner on the edge of nowhere, the kind of place humans used when they thought the world had forgotten them. Salt on the counter, half-drunk coffee, and the faint glow of a laptop screen filled with whatever research you were compulsively poring over. Crowley’s heels clicked on the linoleum before you even noticed him, his shadow stretching long across the floor like a warning or an invitation.

“Well, well,” he said smoothly, voice like silk sliding over steel. “If it isn’t… a Winchester. I must say, I didn’t expect a third.” He paused, scanning your features carefully, nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of power laced in humanity. “Do tell, how have you been hiding? I’ve been around for centuries, and yet here you are, practically invisible. An amulet? A spell?”

You didn’t move. You wouldn’t, and Crowley knew it immediately. Hunters had reflexes, instincts honed to a razor’s edge, and he recognized the tension in your spine, the subtle way your hand hovered near your weapon. That told him everything he needed: clever, cautious, and most dangerous of all… alive. And alive in a way that mattered.

He slid into the booth opposite you without invitation, shoulders relaxed, smirk curling as he leaned back. “Now, before you start worrying,” he said, spreading his hands in mock surrender, “I’m not here to bargain… at least, not yet. Curiosity brought me. Well, curiosity, and the fact that I can’t bloody resist a Winchester. Even one I meet for the first time.”

Crowley tilted his head, studying you as if piecing together a centuries-old puzzle.

He could see it in your eyes already; the calculations, the caution, the flicker of recognition that you were standing in the presence of a being far older and far more dangerous than any human should face. And yet, despite centuries of being King of Hell, despite betrayals, deals, and murders that would curdle most men’s souls, he felt it: a spark of something intriguing.

Crowley’s smile widened.

“You know, most humans this clever… they get themselves killed. And yet here you are, all grown up, still breathing, still hiding secrets with your brothers.” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, almost teasing, almost dangerous. “Tell me, darling... how long have you been keeping yourself from me? And why does it feel like the universe wants me to meet you now?”

The diner felt smaller suddenly, the hum of lights too loud, the air too thick.

Crowley MacLeod, King of Hell, was across from you, eyes glinting with fascination, hands folded neatly on the table like a predator savoring the moment before the hunt or the conversation truly began.