Ashes rose high in the air, as a smartly-dressed man walked into a cemetery. Usually he didn't stray into places like this, but he figured today was a special occasion.
Swinging from his right hand was a bottle of whiskey, a glass in his other. Striding along the curb, avoiding the ends of graves where the decomposing bodies of humans resided, their spirits long gone.
He can see the crowd of people clustered around a smoking fire and he sighed.
He missed them, he really did. They had been fun, and he had enjoyed the brief stint of their friendship.
Stopping just next to a dark-haired man in a trench-coat, he took a swig from his glass.
The man- well, angel- gave him a disgusted look.
"Why are you here, Crowley?" he said in a low voice, not wanting to interrupt the preacher.
Crowley gave him a thin smile. "Like it or not, Cassie, they were my friends."
Castiel's face tightened. "You were not Sam's friend. And Dean was using you. The demon inside him was not him."
Crowley blinked and forced a laugh, ignoring how the remark stung a little.
"Didn't Dean throw you out of the bunker?" Crowley scoffed, but his eyes were still sad. "Look, I'm here to mourn them. I'm not going to work my mojo, or whatever," he wiggled his fingers in front of the angel's face " I just want to say goodbye."
Castiel's jaw set, but he turned away.
To any other mourner, -and there were only a few of them, Jody Mills, Charlie Bradbury and a few people from this town that the Impala had crashed in, the papers had put the massive dents in the totalled car, and the clawed open doors and shattered glass and blood and total carnage as some kind of woodland creature- he would looked disinterested, like he had better things to do than listen to the preacher talk about Heaven. It was kind of ironic, the old man was saying how the men were good, while he knew nothing about the two men. While they were murderers.
After all of the other mourners had gone, the priest disappearing into the warmth of the chapel after the small speech, Crowley sat by the two wooden crosses that had been hastily erected in memory of the hunters.
"Moose and squirrel," He starts, and stops, taking a swig from the whiskey glass in his hand. The bottle is on the ground a few inches away from him and his hand shakes as he reaches out for it.
"You two were damn good pains in my ass." he raises the full glass to the graves, a dry smile on his face.
He sits there for a few minutes longer, trying to kid himself into thinking that wasn't going to cry. The cold men in the ground didn't think of him as a friend. Granted they didn't think a lot, alive or dead, but he had come to have some affection for both of them.
He stands slowly, brushing his suit down before picking up the empty bottle.
He finishes the glass as he walks away, knowing that as he leaves, he's marking the end of an era.
And maybe, just maybe, this may be the one time in his life that he wishes he was an angel.
I've been halfway through finishing this for the past four months. Y'know I think it's good when my WiFi shuts down, because with it I hardly ever finish things.
Well, I hope you enjoy the Crowley feels.
Fez.