Characters do not belong to me, and are the property of the creators of Supernatural.
Bit of a basic Summery: Bobby Singer was an average everyday hunter, he hunted Deer, fish, raccoons, sometimes squirrels, and if he was lucky, a bear every now and again. Life was simple, black and white, good and bad, right and wrong, there was never an in-between. If something bad happened, you deserved it, same with if something good were to occur. He raised two boys after his best friend John Winchester and his wife Mary died in a house fire, and those little kids had nowhere else to go. Once grown and fled off, he was left alone once again, hunting, and later became a researcher for fellow hunters in the area who were unequipped with what to do with certain animals, or what berries or poisonous plants or bugs to be cautious of; He was the go-to cranky drunk of the town, but he wouldn't have his simple everyday routine life any other way. That is until one autumn day, an accident, mishap, mistake, a business man knocked at his door, searching for help, and pushing his life into a constant state of flux with no time for reflection.
Warnings: (For the whole of this story, not just this chapter-) Homophobia, Homosexuality, Mentions of Drug Abuse/Misuse, (Major and Minor) Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, Alcoholism/Alcohol use, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Compromising Situations. Crobby (Crowley/Bobby) Destiel (Dean/Cas) and Sabriel (Sam/Gabriel.) Human!Verse (This story, however, isn't in the Supernatural world, no angels or demons, just average people in a life that's in a constant State of Flux, from beginning to end). I hope you enjoy.
Time, time, time, never enough or too much, it speeds by in a flash of numbers and gets lost all in itself, as well as to everyone else. There was never, and will never, be enough to go around; this is a fast paced society, people need results and they need them then and now. High demand, high expectations, and high outcomes, it was consistently too high that it was always just nearly out of reach.
Bobby Singer felt more rushed than he would dare admit. He may have been older, but he was capable of getting things done at certain points and hitting his deadlines straight on the dot. Perhaps he was just needed too often, or maybe he just had a lot of time on his hands, but that didn't mean he didn't feel as if the world expected maybe a bit too much for his aging brain.
Or maybe he just complained too much.
Rough, worn hands ran over the pages of an old book he 'borrowed' from the library a few miles off. Fingers calloused from frequent gun use, and rough from working on his 'car museum' surrounding his house. The pads of his palm deeply scarred, with the edges roughed out from years of not necessarily kind use. His fingers pressed at the side of the soft, worn page, with a flick of his thumb, he was turning it, the soft sound scraping gently as the page settled.
Too many calls in a single day; Ellen and Jo needed several tips on how to set up an old raccoon trap, Rufus called in on a rat infestation wanting to know how best to deal with it. Although Bobby wasn't the one you should call for Pest control, he did know a thing or two. Sam needed information on how to deal with catching a few bears that were lurking around his neighborhood, while a few old friends had rang in for some simple 'wilderness survival' tips that he was sure had to have been second nature; but it wouldn't be the first time he had been proven wrong.
Right now, he had to look for what kind of insect had been causing this strange outbreak up in Virginia where Dean and his wife Lisa lived. It seemed that Ben had been infected and they just wanted to know what they were dealing with. Their doctor, or whoever-the-hell-they-went-to-for-medical-help couldn't put a diagnosis for some disease they had expected it to be, and said it had been a severe allergic reaction. That seemed normal enough, but then again, there was a catch. Seemed to be that all children under the age of seventeen and above three had caught the damn thing, which, seeing as it should have been a given, looked as if it had originated from some kind of insect. There were tiny bite marks all up Ben's arms and legs, and Bobby was downright bewildered that the doctor had brushed it off as unimportant. Dean must have felt the same way he did about the situation, so eventually he'd called Bobby up to help him handle it.
Bobby had been sitting there for, maybe, a couple of hours, although it felt like decades had passed. Having been hunched over for a good majority of the time, his back slowly beginning to ache with the lack of movement it was suffering from, especially in such a laboring position. The hunter let a heavy sigh pass his thin lips, a hand moving to scratch the side of his bearded chin, before pushing against the arms of his chair to stand.
Too many bugs, on too many pages, in too many books. His head hurt.
Bobby loved reading, almost as much as he loved hunting, but not everyone can sit for hours researching for something he wasn't even entirely sure he could find. Poisonous bugs, 8-legged insects with fangs, cockroaches with a backbone, and too many with wings to willingly count.
Placing a heavy hand on his hips, he leaned backwards, cracking his back in the process. Bobby could hear the faint pops as he did so, straightening himself out as another puff of air escaped his lips. Rough hands moved over his tired face, reaching to pull off his worn-out baseball cap, running his fingers through his ruffled hair before plopping it back down onto his head.
It was always the same, every single day.
A simple routine, one of his own that he never bothered to try and change because it caused too much effort on his end. It was just easier to follow along the pattern from when he woke up in the morning to the evening when he was tuckered out and ready for sleep; to simply wake up every day, work on hunts and maybe grab a bite or two when he was hungry and had the time. Sometimes, if the calls were going easy and the day had been relatively slow, he'd work on that old 67' Chevy Impala he had just rotting away in the back. The one that brought his boys to him, safe and tucked away in their car seats, sleeping and small. Sometimes he forgot about it, the car he meant, and sometimes he found himself fretting over it, checking every inch to make sure it was clean and intact. To pore over every corner and fix the little things that had begun to wear over time.
Bobby liked the car, very much actually, but he knew that Dean was dying to get his hands on it.
Every day was a still routine of get up, work, and go to bed. Back and forth like a windmill or the beat of a metronome, it was steady and barely changed, maybe tweaked sometimes, but it never tampered with his everyday life. After Karen had died, every outside source, every extra activity, everything, was cut. He stayed simple and forgot all those people who connected him to his late wife, who trapped him in her memory when all he wanted was to be free of the melancholy state that a mourning husband should be in. He dedicated his life to hunting and helping, and that wasn't going to change anytime soon.
Bobby stepped into his dirty old kitchen, heavy eyes glancing momentarily at the dishes stacked mountain high in his sink, but decided to hold it off for another day like he always did, before his hand slipped across the cool handle of his fridge, prying it open.
It was empty, for the most part, some leftover Chinese food from last week still sat in the middle, with a couple of beer bottles, and a few aluminum wrapped somethings he didn't dare touch, afraid it might lash back. He eyed the inside door, and saw the average ketchup bottle, half-empty mustard, jam, and a few packages of soy sauce.
Looks like take-out again.
If Karen could see him now… Bobby felt a sad chuckle pass his lips. She would probably scold him for being so sloppy. Yell at him for the lack of care he took of his body with how he barely ate, or gave such a lack of consideration about his health or hygiene. He still showered occasionally, and brushed his teeth frequently like a good boy, but sometimes the simple human necessity just became more of a chore and would quickly be forgotten as he'd find himself engrossed in something else entirely.
She'd be disappointed, needless to say.
Closing the fridge, he made his way over piles of paper and scattered books before grabbing the phone. Dialing in the familiar number, and ordering Chinese once again. Same dish, same rice, same sauce, and the same man over the phone. It was the same, and Bobby couldn't find any room to complain; he enjoyed the routine and the safety he felt because of it. He liked the familiar sounds of voices, and the recognizable taste on his tongue, the smell of an old book, which had been read far too many times, the sound of pages, the sight of a freshly opened beer, and how the cold frosted waves of white air would just burst from the tip when he opened up a new bottle.
The man's raspy voice on the other end gave the time that the food should arrive, which the hunter could probably recite by now, and hung up. The phone was placed on top of the table where he had snatched it up, and the elder man leaned against the wooden table.
He really should be looking at those insects.
Pages slipped on by with engrossed descriptions of venomous to poisonous insects, some with eight legs and some with six. Listing from endangered to extinct, all the way to overpopulated. All of the above, but not limited to. The elder man mumbled under his breath. Dean needed him to be on track right now, for Ben's sake. Bobby grumbled, but forced himself to push off of the table; the moment his hands slide away from the wooden top, there was a heavy knocking on his front door.
Bobby glanced over at the door's general direction, an eyebrow raising slightly on his weary face. There was no way in hell the delivery guy was here yet, if anything he was usually barely on time. Bobby crossed his fingers, hoping it wasn't Rufus stopping by for a "visit" which always consisted of him having to fix up Rufus' damn rust bucket of a car.
The hunter stepped over the mess covering his floor, and mentally scheduled a day to put all those books back on their shelves. Perhaps he'd call over one of the boys and see if they'd help out, it'd be great to have some company while he sorted through the mess.
Half-way to the door, the pounding started up again. "I'm comin', I'm comin'," he shouted loudly, somewhat annoyed, but didn't think much of it. He stepped over a few coats that had fallen, and instinctively bent down to put them back on the rack, before reaching to grab the door handle.
The evening sun was beginning to set. Bobby could tell by how the sky was a deep red, with a vivid orange lacing around the edges. The bittersweet smell of fallen autumn leaves brushed against the hunter's face, who paid it little to no mind, allowing the cool air to blow past him, stirring up some of papers behind him.
Bobby's face showed a look of surprise at the sight man standing in front of him, not because he didn't want to see him, but more because he hadn't any goddamn idea who he was. Half-expecting it to be a 'friend' or someone he ended up helping more than he liked; Bobby never got random visitors, especially from strangers.
"Can I help you?" Bobby muttered carefully, eyeing the man in his doorway suspiciously.
The man was a bit shorter than the hunter, but not by much. He was wearing a sort of formal attire, that looked recently tattered, if not originally expensive; All black clothes, like the guy was headed to some sort of funeral or something akin. Black slacks, black button up shirt under a soft looking black trench coat that looked custom made; Black shined shoes. Guy looked real tidy.
"Ah, yes," the man uttered, his voice sounded a bit strange. He definitely wasn't from around here, he didn't even sound like he was from America; but Bobby couldn't exactly place the accent right of the bat, but he was certain it was European.
"I've been in a bit of an accident," the pale man turned his head to look behind himself for a moment, before turning his attention back to the hunter. "My phone's as dead as a dodo bird, and I can't seem to contact anyone for help." He shuffled on his feet, glancing down briefly before meeting the hunter's eyes, watching him steadily. "Mind if I use your phone?"
This guy had eyes as sharp as a knife, and Bobby felt that if he wasn't careful he'd somehow surgically chop him to bits; it was almost cynical—the way the man looked at him. Bobby stood stupidly in his door frame for a split second, his mind whirling. He briefly considered telling the guy he couldn't help him, but he couldn't do that. 'Course not, the poor guy had probably been through enough as it was, and maybe had the door slammed in his face already. Bobby only missed a beat, before stepping aside.
"Not at all, c'mon in," he muttered, letting the man brush by him, uttering a small 'thank you.'
"Sorry, 'bout the mess," Bobby said with a twinge of dissatisfaction, "Hadn't expected anyone to come over."
"It's quite alright," the trench coated man stated, eyes taking in the scenery a moment before they spotted the phone, still resting on the wooden table where Bobby left it moments before. He stepped over books and clutter, careful not to harm anything before grabbing the device, thumbs quickly moving over the dials in a rhythm that showed the man had a bit of experience with such devices, unlike most who lived down in the hunter's neck of the woods.
The man brought the phone to his ear, and Bobby watched as he waited, the soft sound of beeps echoing before there was a distinct click, and a voice muffled on the other end. "It's me- Ah, yes, well, there has been a bit of an accident-"
The trench coated man spoke to the other person on the phone, tone clipped and crisp, speaking the same way he dressed; precise. Bobby thought it wise to let him be. Turning around, he looked at the clutter on his desk. With a slight grunt, his hands grabbed the pile of books, before straightening them out.
He could hear the accented voice behind him explain his current situation, but didn't really listen to the words; It wasn't any of his business to be meddling in strangers private affairs. Moving, Bobby began placing the books back onto his shelf, clearing off his desk, and finally straightening a few pages before he heard the sound of a clearing throat behind him. The hunter looked up from the wooden desk, the trenched man standing with his hands in his trench coat pockets, the phone set on the side table.
"I'll be out of your hair in a few minutes," the man began, voice a bit slower than when he was talking on the phone, but still holding that cynical tone in it. Almost bored or disinterested. "I apologize for intruding in on your home like this."
"It's not a problem," Bobby gave a polite smile, "I would have wanted the same done for me."
"Of course." The trench coated man fell silent after that, his eyes wandering around the room, taking in the cluttered sight, but not seeming to be bothered by it. The silence made the hunter somewhat uncomfortable. There was a stranger in his house for heavens sake, might as well talk to 'em.
"So what exactly happened out there?" Bobby heard himself saying, drawing those sharp, dark eyes back in his direction. Bobby didn't really look at the guy from the door, other than by his attire, but without all that light from outside blinding him he was able to get a decent look at the stranger.
Noted, the man was very pale, dark hair, to which the hunter couldn't decide if it was ebony or brunette; he didn't drift on the thought long. The strands were short and combed, a few stray hairs sticking up and Bobby could imagine the stranger having a fuss about the little imperfections as he got ready for his classy job. The stranger had a roundish face, a soft stubble that looked recently shaved but neglected to be finished off entirely, and a sort of subtle pudginess about him that wasn't fat nor thin; With these deep piercing eyes, the lighting in the room preventing the hunter from seeing the color.
He looked like an average guy, but something about him seemed sharp. Bobby felt that if he wasn't careful, he'd end up getting cut but the edges.
"Car accident," the trench coated man answered, voice a soft, annoyed growl, sounding as if this wasn't the first time his car decided to fly away from him.
"My bloody engine failed, and now I'm late for an appointment." As he muttered the last part his eyes flickered to his watch, which was strapped around his wrist, there was a sort of light that flashed across his face, like a dawning, before he stepped forward.
"How rude of me, I never introduced myself." He held out his hand, to which the hunter took firmly in his own, black leather against rough skin. "The name's Fergus McLeod, but you can call me Crowley."
"Robert Singer, but Bobby work's fine too." Dropping the man's hand, he watched as Crowley straightened up his trench coat. "You alright?"
"Peachy," Crowley frowned, but shrugged it off. "The car is a piece of junk."
"I could take a look at it, if you want." Bobby wasn't sure why he offered, but at the moment it seemed like the polite thing to do. After all, this guy was probably rich and could buy a few brand new cars if he decided, and most likely didn't need his help; however, he was surprised when the man smiled at him.
"Oh you don't have to do that," he waved, "I just met you, I'm not going to force you on your knees to work for me."
"It's no trouble," Bobby amended, "If you couldn't tell, I don't got much else to do," he waved idly a moment, obviously referring to the thousands of cars outside of his house, and the clutter building up inside, "Workin' on cars is the least of my worries."
The man paused, his upper teeth barely scraping over his lower lip before deciding with what to say. "You don't mind?"
"Well 'course not, wouldn't want another accident, now would you?" Crowley let off a light chuckle.
"I suppose I don't."
Bobby chuckled himself, it felt good to chuckle, he should do it more often. "Is someone coming to get you?"
"Yes, Meg, my assistant," Crowley answered, with a slight twinge of distaste on his tongue, "Can never get good help these days."
Bobby nodded absentmindedly, although, he didn't exactly have a point of reference to agree; any help was good help, at least in Bobby's book. He watched the guy a moment, silently wondering what he did for a living, but was cut off by another knock at the door. "One second," he muttered to the man, before heading off to the door, opening it up once again.
A woman stood there, dark hair, with a sort of cynical attitude hanging on her shoulder. Still not the Chinese delivery guy.
"Think your ride's here," Bobby called over his shoulder. Crowley appearing by his side moments later, before giving him a small smile.
"Thank you, Robert, for your hospitality." Robert, nobody calls him Robert. It was almost weird to hear. Bobby nodded, uttering an 'any time,' and the man patted the side of his vest, as if an awkward try to thank him, before nodding to... Meg, Bobby guessed, and stepping out of the door.
The hunter watched them walk away from his house before closing the door, and running a hand over his face. He'd had two random visits already, and his Chinese still wasn't here. Bobby could hear his stomach making unpleasant noises at him, a hand idly moving to his abdomen until something hard in his pocket brushed across his hand.
Bobby thought nothing of it, before walking into the room once again, eyes dragging over his desk a moment, before they landed on the floor. He really did need to pick up in here.
Minutes passed by, and one by one, each book found its original home back on his shelf, papers were stacked and filed away in the drawers of his desk, until the room finally looked halfway decent. His eyes darted over to the kitchen where the stack of dishes were mountain high in his sink, and only frowned at them.
Shrugging it off when he heard another knock on his door. He muttered under his breath, opening up the door for the third, and hopefully, final time that day.
"Hey, Bobby," the Chinese delivery guy smiled up at the hunter.
"Hey Justin, good see'n you." Justin nodded at this, handing over the food, telling the hunter the amount, which they both knew was unnecessary, before waving his goodbye. Justin was nice, he was the only delivery boy that Bobby ever let keep the change.
Bobby set the food on his, now clear, desk, walking over to the bookshelf once again to pull out the insect encyclopedia from before. Dean was still waiting to hear from him, and distractions wouldn't cut it.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in utter silence, save for the quiet chewing and the soft flutter of pages. Bobby looked over every possible insect or virus that it could be, which was limited, before scribbling it all down, along with the page numbers, doggy-ear'ing the pages and finally putting the book aside.
He had already forgotten about the strange man that had shown up earlier, with his funny accent and clean cut attire that had looked somewhat disheveled, his mind back onto that same-old drive it was so used to being on.
It was getting late, and Bobby thought it best if he were to finally get some sleep, it'd do him some good. Pulling off his vest and placing it on the rack, he heard a soft jingle that caught his attention. Pausing in his movements, Bobby listened, but when he didn't hear it again, he finished placing the vest up, only to hear the sound again.
The hunter made a face, patting down his vest until something hard in the pocket brushed against his hand.
Bobby raised a brow, reaching inside and feeling the lining of cold metal brush against his fingertips. Pulling it out, it looked like a set of keys. It took the hunter a moment to register that this was the reason he was patted earlier when the man named Crowley had left; he had slipped him his car keys.
Looked like the man had a Ford, if the print on the side of the keys was anything to go by. Bobby reached into the pocket again, to make sure that was it, but was surprised when his hand slipped against a piece of paper. Pulling it out, he examined it, seeing it was some sort of business card. The words Purgatory Placements printed out neatly on the front, with a number right underneath it, the name Fergus McLeod in the center. He turned the small card over to see a message scrawled out in neat handwriting.
The keys are in your pocket, and the car is halfway down the road, a little less than a mile from here. Call me when you're done, or if you need anything. -Crowley
Bobby couldn't help but chuckle to himself, grabbing his vest and slipping it back on before opening the door. What the hell had he gotten himself into?
