"You say that, but every time I've been here it's been Winchester free," Crowley smiled brightly. Michael might have been right about the usual climate when it came to people who frequented the establishment, but even though he'd seen flannel and plaid and Winchesterish fashion, he'd never actually run into Sam, Dean or any of their adopted sproglets in here, thank Sin for that. It wasn't like flannel and all that was exclusive to hunters, anyway, "you can carry on a decent conversation here without being overheard either."
Crowley glanced around. The place was somewhat busy, a few wayward souls sitting around drinking together, some playing darts at the side of the room, others just talking in separate booths. There was a television set up blaring gently, some random sport was playing that the bartender was watching while wiping glasses. It would have seemed like just another bar if it weren't for the fact that it was evident that quite a few of the residents in the bar weren't altogether mortal, but this place was clearly designed to be a neutral ground.
He sighed softly, looking up at Michael. There wasn't really any easy way to say this.
"The antichrist problem here?" he glanced around slowly, though nobody would have said boo if he'd yelled antichrist at the top of his lungs, due to the general aura of the place, "There's an even bigger situation back home. You're an uncle. Lucifer has a kid. A Nephilim. The Winchesters have adopted it." Crowley didn't bother to suppress his scowl before draining half his scotch and feeling it burn down his throat. "Mazel fucking tov, right?"