"Nice, she says. Nice. You hear that, Pup?" Crowley scoffed as he topped up her glass before filling his own (a more generous measure, naturally, because he resented sharing his scotch with a goddam celestial; what sort of angel drank, anyway? Weren't they supposed to spontaneously combust or something?), casting a glance back towards the door where the Hellhound lolled, despondent, having finally gotten the message that Master couldn't play right now and coming near him was going to hurt as long as the redhaired woman who smelled funny stuck around. "Anybody would think you're not enjoying our hospitality, Red."
Maybe the showtunes were a touch obnoxious, granted. But being forced to shack up with the enemy was bound to make a demon a little... tetchy.
Ordinarily the King of the Crossroads could have taken the Seal's bullshit in his stride; Crowley didn't get to that sort of prestigious sales position without understanding that trade fluctuates. You have your good days (when whatever craziness is going on has people desperate or impatient or frustrated enough to look at all the options) and your bad ones (when rampaging horsemen or giant bugs or rogue jedi have everyone too afraid to make that trek down to the crossroads, or some jackass thinks it's funny to give everyone a bloody bauble which offers the same deal without the messy consequences). But this? This was taking the piss.