[Crowley turns the feed back on only when he has the Colt in his hands, loading it carefully with bullets. One after another after another. And then, he levels the gun upward abruptly, pulling the trigger, which sinks itself directly into the center of a vase, shattering it.]

I could drink another bottle and still sink this directly into your brain matter without much more effort.

[His tone is cold.]

You Winchesters are horrendous shots.