The Pit, or Claude's Bar

Claude's is the dirtiest pit in the Pit, so Crowley says. The décor's ramshackle at best (bits often fall off, and let's not talk about the state of the toilets). There's a story that circulated a few hundred years back, about a demon who took a plank of wood from Claude's and tortured damned souls with it. Oh, how Alastair laughed.

Of course, being a bit of a crap-hole, Claude's is the place to go when you want to hear some really juicy, squidgy, bloody gossip. Lucifer, Azazel, Lilith, Abbadon... each of them has been the butt of jokes at some point. These days, it's Crowley who's the source of entertainment. Demons of 'class', such as Crowley, never set foot inside—once, I hear, Crowley stood outside and then he had his precious suit incinerated. Snigger. Pompous dick.

In Claude's it's therefore safe to make jokes and gossip about the King... not that the Average Joe Demons are scared, you understand, but it's not like he'll ever hear you. I heard he's been held captive by those Winchesters... Laugh. Abbadon versus Crowley: who would've won? Ooh... Crowley's got no friends. Ha!

It's a surprise, then, when the door opens and in strides the King of Hell.

Mid-sentence, the huddle of gossiping demons pause and stare, something akin to fear flashing in the depths of their black eyes. The demon sharpening an angel blade at her table looks up from her work. One demon, about to throw a dart (crafted from a rib) at the dartboard—he stops; the dart next to his ear. The eyeballs roll around the pool table after the break; no one's watching them. The Hellhound lying under one of the tables whines in the sudden silence. Even Claude, who has seen it all, stops pouring drinks to watch.

Crowley walks right up to the bar, taking his sweet time and ignoring everyone. He wipes the nearest barstool with a handkerchief, grimaces at the black stains now on the white silk, and sits down. Claude pours him a drink and sticks his fingers into the cracked pint glass to remove some of the dirt that has floated to the top of the beer. He slides it across to Crowley who sniffs down at it disdainfully.

You'd think that's the last of it, but no. Before noise levels can return to normal, the demons all fall silent again. Dean Winchester appears in the doorway, eyes blacker than coal. He stands there, scanning the room, his face grim. The demons don't dare move. Then he catches sight of the bowl of snacks.

"Ooh, pretzels!" he exclaims. He darts forward, suddenly grinning.

Crowley's beer sits in front of him, untouched; Dean stuffs his face, making disturbing noises. Crowley watches the Winchester for a few moments, a look of horror (and is that... embarrassment?) on his face, before he turns to Claude and says, "He's new."

A Winchester's in Hell and it's all Crowley's doing.

(Long live the King, they'll say.)

THE END

Author's Note: Jensen said in an interview that Demon Dean is like "Dean on steroids", and so my immediate thought was that he probably really, really likes pretzels now. Then the whole demon bar thing happened... So, uh, thanks for reading! :)