A/N: This may be the very first time I've written a Supernatural story that does not have Dean or Sam in it, and it feels mighty strange. In this, Crowley is the star. It's total crack!fic but I thought it was a funny idea and it came from a random conversation between me and a friend. I hope you all like it as well. I would LOVE to hear from you if you could take a minute.

A/N 2: Kopi Luwak = coffee made from civet poop.

Disclaimer: Nothing related to Supernatural belongs to me. Nor does anything related to Friday the 13th, Nightmare on Elm St., or Halloween. I'm just having a little fun.


By: Vanessa Sgroi

Crowley smiled his wicked, wanton smile at the three minions sitting at the table in front of him. He dropped his shoulders back and clapped his hands, rubbing them together as he donned an amiable expression.

"So—I guess you know why you are all here. It is performance evaluation time again." Crowley's eyes twinkled. "My very favorite—torturous—time of year. Would any of you like to partake of some refreshment? Kopi Luwak and blood pudding perhaps?"

The three minions shook their heads no simultaneously.

"No? A shame that. You've no idea what you're missing. Well then, without further ado, let's get started."

The demon boss's eyes zeroed in on the first man on the left. "Jason Voorhees, how's the slasher bit going these days?"

The man behind the hockey mask sat silently at the table, a long, vicious-looking butcher knife twirling in his hands. The fathomless eye sockets stared at Crowley intently.

"Man of few words, I see. Well, from the paperwork here in front of me, I note that you killed eight horny teenagers at a new summer camp—a Camp Rainbow—is that right?"

Jason nodded once.

"Good. Good. But why, pray tell, only eight? The goal you listed on last year's self-assessment, I believe, was 20." Crowley stabbed his finger at the page in front of him. "So, you are far below your goal." He let his gaze linger on Jason for several long moments while he tapped his fingers on his chin then smiled when the slasher shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Perhaps this coming year you can work on your productivity, hmm? Oh, and for Hell's sake, can you PLEASE take care of that tall, shaggy-haired freak of a cop sometime in the near future, eh? I mean, really? It's become rather an embarrassment."

Jason thwacked the knife, point first, into the table, leaving it quivering.

With a raised eyebrow, Crowley responded, "I'll take that as a yes." Dismissing the masked slasher, the demon king turned to his next target.

"Frederick Charles Krueger. Vengeful spirit."

Freddy adjusted his brown fedora. "That's me," a grin stretching across his ruined face.

Crowley's eyes scanned the sheet of paper he held. "I do admit I have always admired your tenacity. And your bravery—haunting teenagers' dreams. The Dream Demons were so right to recommend you back in the day. And I am impressed with your body of work as a whole. However, this past year—let's see—slim pickings in Springwood, is there? Only two teenagers last year? That seems rather low for someone of your…capabilities."

A metallic tap-tap-tapping began on the surface of the table.

"I fail to understand why—" Crowley scowled, brow lowering dangerously. "Am I boring you?" He began to pace in front of the table and then slammed a hand down next to Freddy's animated gloved one on the table.

The razor-tipped glove froze, and the tapping abruptly stopped.


"No, what?" breathed Crowley.

"No, sir."

Crowley smiled and straightened, adjusting his black suit coat on his stocky frame. "Much better. Now then, as I was saying, I fail to understand why you have not had a larger success rate. After all, all children dream, do they not?"

"But sir…"

Crowley waved a hand, effectively silencing his sweater-clad minion. "Never mind. Here is my suggestion for improvement—relocate. As some of my real estate agents say, it's all about location, location, location. Find a new hunting ground! Understood?"

Freddy nodded.

"Good. See my secretary, Ms. Ithlil, on the way out. She'll give you a list of potential sites. And may I say—sweet dreams."

Turning from the child killer, Crowley eyed his next employee up and down, tsking slightly with the tip of his tongue. "Michael Myers."

Michael stared at him from behind the paper-mache mask he always wore.

Crowley waved the piece of paper in his hand. "Another incessant talker, I see." He waved a dismissive hand and spun on his heel. He quietly read the page, muttering under his breath. "Embodiment of pure evil. Mmm hmm. An almost supernatural force. Uh huh. A force of nature. Nice. A mythic, elusive bogeyman. Excellent!" Crowley dropped the paper on the table. "Some marvelous comments as usual about you, Michael! Everything I like to hear."

Michael sat up straighter in his chair and squared his shoulders.


Michael slumped.

"I am somewhat disappointed with your performance this past year. You only managed to get the best of one security guard at the Golden Glade Sanitarium. I managed, with no little effort, mind you—to get you transferred to Briarleigh Sanitarium, which as you know, is substantially less—shall we say rigorous—in their policies, and you still only killed one teeny-tiny little nurse's aide. So, I will simply mark this little box as 'Needs Improvement'."

Michael squirmed in his seat.

"No worries, lad. I have an action plan mapped out for you. I propose we arrange a little escape from Briarleigh. Effectively immediately."

Myers nodded his head vigorously.

"Then perhaps you can create a maximum amount of mayhem and improve your performance appraisal next year. You can also see Ms. Ithlil on your way out. She has a list of goals I've put together for you."

Crowley's gaze roamed the table one last time. "Well now, I think that's it for you today. You may go. And, gentlemen," Crowley's charmingly evil grin appeared. "Make sure I see some improvements from all of you this year. And, yes, the 'Or Else' is implied. Now go." The demon king eased down into his throne-like chair and watched the three horrors shuffle out the door. With a flick of his wrist, Crowley stoked the ring of fire enclosing the room. He then quickly scanned the paperwork before signing his name with a flourish. Crowley was just stacking everything into a neat pile when the red telephone next to his elbow buzzed.

"Yes, Ms. Ithlil?"

"Sir, your next group has arrived for their reviews."

"Excellent. Give me five minutes and you can send them in. Oh, and Ms. Ithlil?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Bring me some more Kopi Luwak and some rat pate with toasted bat wings, won't you? I'm feeling a bit peckish. Oh, and don't forget the side of Clotted Blood this time, my dear."