Bobby gulps down half a glass of his deadliest whiskey at once and he wants to drown himself in it. He makes a face when it doesn't work, and drinks again. And again. He refills, and he drinks. Again. And again. Again he reaches for the bottle, starts pouring some more, but he changes his mind halfway through, and the little downfall of alcohol ends up straight into his throat.
The house is quiet, sitting still around him, empty and dusty like the insides of a dead tree. He used to feel safe, in here. Worst mistake you can make, feeling safe. There's no safety. The word itself is so stupid they should rip it away from the vocabulary. Bobby surely did, so long ago it feels like forever.
He drinks and drinks and drinks, sprawled on the couch with a book in his lap. He's been reading bullshit since he woke up, useless lines of Latin which maybe will help them save their sorry asses and the universe as well, or maybe they won't. They most probably won't, so Bobby gave up reading half an hour ago, and focused entirely on giving himself another alcohol poisoning.
He hears a soft clattering from the kitchen, probably the mouse that's been pestering his oven found the poisoned cheese and is twitching all the way towards a probably painful and slow death. It's not the goddamn mouse, though, he realizes a heartbeat later, when Crowley steps into the living room, nursing a fat, round glass of what looks and smells like bourbon, top class.
Bobby doesn't even flinch, even though the not so slender figure of the demon quietly walking around his home is quite a punch in his hunter pride's guts.
"Must've costed you an eye and a leg," Bobby says, nodding at the glass, because, no kidding, he can actually smell that thing, even when he's this far away. Crowley smirks, comes further into the room, carefully avoiding the traps drawn on the ceiling and under the carpet. Bobby growls, deep on the back of his throat, because he dared hope.
"Not really, no," Crowley says, squinting his eyes like he always does, for dramatic power. A pause. "Just a sloppy kiss with a disgusting old lady, and ten years of waiting after that," he makes a slightly disgusted face, then his smirk is back in place. "I took this," and he raises the glass just a bit, "as compensation for the unnecessary licking."
Bobby feels his face heat up against his better will, his better judgement.
"Well," he grumbles, his voice so low he barely hears himself. "You know where I keep my booze."
Crowley's grin widens, his eyes gets black for a second and Bobby's instincts kick in, he finds himself sitting straight and looking for a weapon – any kind of weapon – before he can pull it together and calm down, force himself to put up with the demon in his home. Of course, Crowley takes the shift in his mood as an invitation to join him on the couch. The moment he sits down, Bobby jerks up like he got electrocuted.
"Now don't be silly, Robert, darling," Crowley says, Bobby's jumpy reaction going apparently unnoticed to him. "Why would I crave to plunder your precious alcohol cabinet when you're always so kind to offer the best you have?"
Bobby hesitates for a moment, then he huffs, trying to sound annoyed and failing miserably.
"Whiskey or bourbon?" he asks, and he's kind of pouting. Crowley has an actual smile on his face, it even lasts for three whole seconds.
"I'll stick with the bourbon, thank you."
Bobby pours whiskey for two, and he isn't listening to the deadly quietness of his house anymore.