AN: This is the sixteenth and final installment in my vocab oneshot series. Sixteen's a good number to stop at right? A nice square number. Short, sweet, and sassy. Reviewers will be given a cookie and a piece of pie. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I wish... I wish... I wish... (looks around) Damn. Time to find a crossroads.
One-Sided Conversations
Crowley looked up when the door creaked open and the light flicked on. "That you Moose? Or is it Squirrel?"
There was no reply, but Crowley wasn't discouraged and listened to the footsteps. "Hm… Walking heavily with long strides… Must be Moose. How are you, Sam?" he asked cordially.
The only reply Crowley received was some shuffling of papers. "Ah, working on a case I see. Well, not really see given I'm stuck behind a freakin' bookcase," the demon growled. He paused to calm down and said, "Let me guess, you need some spell or ritual or symbol that you hope to find in these archaic texts. You know, you hunters would have a much easier time if those esoteric Men of Letters didn't keep everything a secret. Would have made a whole lot of jobs simpler and less messy."
Crowley heaved a sigh when Sam didn't respond, "Come on, Moose. Give me something here. You don't have nearly as much antipathy towards me as you did Lucifer, and you eventually responded to him while he was in your head." The demon grinned, "And talking to me won't end in you having a mental break down."
Nothing.
"So, what case are you and Squirrel working on now? Rogue angel, wraith, rugaru, tulpa, vetala… Jefferson starship?"
Nothing.
Crowley huffed, "I probably know whatever information you're looking for in those antiquated books. The last Men of Letters died over fifty years ago! I mean, you have the King of Hell locked up in your basement, and you don't even consult him? You can't get much more current than me!"
Nothing.
"Fine, Samantha. Be that way." Crowley sulked for a moment, pondering the ways he might be able to get the Winchester to respond.
"Did you know that Harry Houdini was a fraud? Well… sort of. He was a great illusionist, but as he got older his escapist tricks got harder. He wasn't too happy with it; he wanted to continue his upward fame. In the last ten years some of his "impossible" escapes really were impossible, but the contract made them work. Then in 1926 a hellhound dragged his soul to hell… So death by hellhound, not peritonitis."
Nothing.
"You gotta help me out here, Moose. Case, news, anecdote. Anything. Your love life? How's that going by the way? You and Dean seem to be spending a lot of time here so you probably aren't getting out much to-"
The lights were flicked off, and the door closed. The sound of a piece of paper landing on the floor was the only vestige of Sam ever being there.
"Bullocks."