What Actually Happened
Tee hee
Summary: Randomness of what went down with Bobby's deal with Crowley. BobbyxCrowley
Author's Note: HA. Ha ha. Ha. It was difficult to write this without bursting out laughing in the middle of English class. And it's reeeeally quiet in here. It would be awkward. Ha ha. Ha ha. That's also why I can't make it much longer… I almost cracked several times already. X3 I 3 the crowlyxbobby pairiiiiiing~! :D:D:D:D and I might continue this awkardness later... when I'm at home... not surrounded by random people I don't know cery well... oh, hello random person looking at the screen while I type. :P
Dreams are that in which we climb towards. Dreams are the visions in which we cling and reach for. Dreams are what keeps us alive.
So what happens when a giant dinosaur crushes your hopes and dreams and destroys your very soul itself? What happens when your dreams are dispersed and littered across the galaxy in an array of death and hatred? What happens after THAT, bitch? Do you just crawl through life hoping that everything will be okay? What if you can't even crawl? What do you do?
Bobby Singer is trapped. He's trapped in his chair. He's trapped in his house. He's trapped in the stale air for hours upon hours, breathing in dust of the rabbits. He's trapped in those stories, trapped into the cycles and entranced by the urban myths and legends that encase his life and used to keep it going. It's difficult, being trapped in that place. His comfort is his liquor. His love is the liquid rippling inside the glass.
Glass upon wood meet his ears as they clash together. The class bottle stands tilted on the desk, while the lingering hand leaves to fly across the page of words and letters once more. His blurred vision attempts to focus on the ink, but it's beginning to prove difficult.
"Hello there, stranger." An unfamiliar voice spoke from across the room. Bobby pulled his gun out and, although he looked rather helpless in his wheelchair, wheeled out from behind the desk to point the gun at the visitor. The man held up his hands in defense. "Now now, I didn't come here to fight you."
"Then what did you come for? What are you?"
"Excuse me for not introducing myself. I'm Crowley. Crossroads demon." He said with a smirk across his face. Bobby kept his shotgun locked and loaded. His scowl never receding. "I helped Sam and Dean-"
"I ain't workin' with no crossroads demon. Now get your ass out of here before I make you crap margaritas for a week." Bobby threatened, and narrowed his eyes further at the demon. He could see the fainted smile on the demon's face.
"Oh come now, Robert. Don't you at least want to see what I have to offer? I have no gain in you and the Winchester's failure. Hear me-"
"Get out."
"Don't you mean 'get it out'? Let's make a deal at some crossroads, boy."