Author's Note: I'm sort of a hard Crowley/Bobby shipper. I apologize if you don't swing it.
"Is that Bobby Singer?" a voice asked behind the boys; a familiar line for the Winchesters. When the hunter and king of Hell fought, no one's communications were safe. It was all snippy comments and things breaking. Dean hung his head, sighing, and contemplated lying to the demon. Sam got up on cue, saying something about coffee.
"Yes, but we're on a case, so if you don't min-" his sentence was cut short, however when Crowley snatched the phone from the eldest Winchester's hand.
"Bobby, sweetie, I didn't mean to upset you last night. Do I have permission to come home now? I'll even wear plaid and denim, how's that sound?" Crowley's voice cooed, his negotiating voice nearly over-taking his apologetic tone.
"I'm gonna need somethin' to stay awake tonight, ya idjit. Don't waste my time," and the line for Crowley went dead.
"Do you know what he needs to stay awake?" Crowley asked, flipping the phone shut and looking down at the screen.
"Oh, I'm sure you'll find some way," Dean snatched his phone back, giving a sarcastic smile before going back to his father's journal. The boys had long ago accepted the fact that the king of Hell and a hunter had somehow made it work, Dean partially because he was star-crossed with an angel, and Sam because he was crushing on a Pagan-god-slash-angel-in-hiding. Not to mention because the two of them weren't even considering calling it quits, no matter the stupid amount of fits they had.
And so, Crowley went back to his redneck lover, handy with fine coffee, newly bought plaid and denim, Aspirin, and alcohol.