Disclaimer: Characters are not mine! All characters belong to Supernatural.

Warning: Drinking [Alcohol use].

Bobby scrunched up his nose at the foul and strong scented liquor, closing the bottle and stuffing it away once again, dragging his hands over the glass bottles once more in his pantry as he tried to locate something to drink. He's run out of his normal rotgut and know's he needs to head down to the store soon, but didn't have any real motivations to get up and actually do it; he's been working to all hell to get some of the research done, and had recently got a new side-job in his Salvage yard. Rufus had damn near totaled his truck and needed Bobby to fix it up for him, not to mention he's getting a good pay for his help. Bobby figured he'd get to it that afternoon if he finishes up early in here, but if not he could easily get to it in the morning.

It's been about a week since Crowley had dropped him off from the gathering, and he hadn't heard hind nor tail of the guy since. Bobby tried not to think too much on it, but he wondered if maybe the night hadn't gone all that well than he had thought it did. Maybe he said something to offend him, or bored him or something worse, which might have had something to do with the lack of contact. Bobby insisted it was because the guy was busy, and had actual important stuff to do than contact some hunter he'd only met a few times down the road. Bobby had to keep reminding himself that he wasn't all that special.

He'd recently found out, however, about the Dean and Lisa situation. Dean and him had talked about it, and figured that letting it play out would be for the best and Dean seemed pretty upset about it overall, but he also seemed to be handling things pretty damn well, considering. He wasn't losing Ben, and that was important, but Bobby had no idea outside of that. He told him that his home was always open, but evidently some guy named Cas already had it covered. Bobby didn't pry too much, knowing how Dean could get sometimes, especially when he's distressed or not in his right setting of mind, so he let it drop for the moment at least until he gets to see him again.

Which, now that he thought about it, would be in about a month or so for Christmas. It's a silly tradition him and the boys had, but it was their silly traditions and they chose it keep up with it. It wasn't really much, just that they each came up for a quick little get together to catch up on things they've missed. They could miss birthdays, or thanksgiving, or really any of the other holidays, but Christmas was always really special for their little broken down family. It was always small, but it meant something to them that even though life could rain down on them, that they'd always have family to back them up; even if not that, then to simply support them when they needed it.

Bobby remembers his first Christmas with the boys. Sam was only seven months old, and Dean was about to turn five- they'd only just lost their mother and father a month before in that house fire, it was just a month since they've been brought to his house, and Dean wouldn't say a word. Sam was too young to understand, and they were both so young. Bobby didn't really expect much at his first shot on giving them a decent Christmas, just small things, little toys and action figures that they'd enjoy. Bobby remembered buying Sam these simple colorful toys that he always had in his mouth, but lasted for years; but Dean was a bit harder to budge.

He remembered giving him this Batman action figure, and although he never seemed too excited about it, Bobby would sometimes catch him playing with it in his room when he thought no one was looking. He still didn't talk much, and it took years to truly pull him out of this shell, but he was doing better, and that's really all that mattered at that point. Christmas for the first two years he had the boys were small, and Dean hadn't shown much interest in them until he was six. The boys never really gave him much other than these cards or things they made from school, but Bobby cherished all of them. Once they were a bit older, they had saved up some money from chores they'd offer to do [Bobby never really had the heart to set them up a chore, but the boys insisted to help out around the house; like straightening up or doing the dishes.] Bobby gave them a few dollars spending money, which they'd saved up to get him some new tools for fixing cars.

Needless to say, they're the only ones he'll use.

Christmas was traditional, and the boys came down every year. Bobby never insisted, but they always did. Sam would bring a friend or two, Dean would bring Lisa and Ben, however it seemed like their little tradition might change a bit this year. It was sad, actually, Bobby really did like Lisa, she was good for Dean, she kept him grounded, but sometimes people aren't always as they put out to be.

Bobby huffed to himself, hearing the soft trotting of feet from behind. He turned to look at Rumsfeld as he walked into the room, rubbing his head briefly against the hunters leg before laying down beside the hunter's feet, his heavy body collapsing beside him. Bobby rolled his eyes kindheartedly at the creature before closing the pantry, there wasn't anything to drink; he'd just have to get some later. Patting his leg to signal Rumsfeld to follow, he strolled back into his living room, the rottweiler in tow when he heard his phone go off. The default tone ringing away from where it rested on his desk.

Bobby snatched it up, he wasn't getting a call, but it looks like someone sent him a text. He assumed it was Sam to talk about his new job, because he still has yet to hear anything about it from him. However, opening the message, he was surprised to see who it was from.

'301 S Phillips Ave -CRM'

CRM? What the hell- It took a moment for Bobby to figure out those were Crowley's initials, but what did the 'R' stand for? Richard? Bobby figured it was stupid to dwell on it. He sent a quick 'Excuse me?' as response, setting down his phone and taking a seat behind his desk. Rumsfeld trotted and moved so he was underneath his the cluttered mess of a desk, curling himself up at the hunters feet and laid there. Bobby leaned down to scratch behind his dogs ear as he set to organizing the endless mess on his table top. He heard his phone go off again.

It was weird, getting texted. He knew he was old, but he shouldn't feel that old. He looked at the message.

'Meet me there around seven-ish if you're available. If unavailable, come anyways. -CRM'

Alright Sherlock, the hunter thought sarcastically before shooting him back a text. 'Why?'

It barely took a moment to get a reply back.

'Not been a great week, I'd love to have some company. -CRM'

Bobby found himself looking at that response a bit longer than necessary. It gave him this strange sort of feeling in the pit of his chest that made him feel a bit warm around the edges, but brushed those kinds of things away. Crowley just wanted company- however, that rose the question as to why he's asking Bobby, and not one of his closer colleagues like Meg, or one of those guys with the names that started with an A. It was like Alazlester or something like that, a lot names slipped away from him, but some of them stuck, like Meg, and Ruby- Ruby's name actually rang a few bells, but he could never seem to place it the more he thought about it. Perhaps it was just coincidence.

He looked at the message again and contemplated how to answer. Getting out of the house seemed nice, but he doesn't really know where he'll be going, he'll just know the why. Which also begs the question as to why Crowley was asking him of all people to go. Bobby tried brushing off the nudging feeling of feeling special when it really doesn't call for it- He was thinking too deeply on it. Crowley just wanted company, quit acting like a goddamn prepubescent teenager, Jesus Christ.

'Sure, don't see why not. Is there something I should bring with me?'

Once again, the response didn't take much time.

'Just yourself, love. See you then, tata. -CRM'

Bobby didn't need to respond to that, although he still had some questions he wanted answered. He set his phone aside and looked at the clock that hung up on his wall- he had a few hours before he supposed he needed to clean up and drive to where ever the hell Crowley asked him to go. He felt a pang of nervousness at the entire ordeal; why was he feeling nervous? Evidently first impressions are out of the equation, because it seems he'd already made one hell of an impression. More has happened in this past month than it has since the fire in 83' because of it. Bobby still hadn't decided on whether this was a good or a bad thing quite yet, but he figured that something a bit different couldn't be all that bad.

The time ticked on by, but for once it didn't seem to be moving too fast, or moving too slow, it just seemed to keep pace with itself; trying to keep himself distracted to ease a bit of the tension he felt in his shoulders. He felt irrationally anxious, but Bobby blew it off as a bit of social nervousness. He had to remind himself that it was just getting out of the house, and he shouldn't feel like he's about to feint because of it. It'll be fine; him and Crowley get along just fine, and the hunter can really start seeing a strange friendship bloom- Perhaps he was worried he'd mess this up, like he does everything else.

Once it got closer to seven, Bobby took a quick shower, cleaning up the ink skins on his hands and any oil spots he might have on his due to working on Rufus's truck earlier that day. Scrubbed out his hair, washed his face along with that; after showering he made quick work of drying up and putting on some clean clothes. He didn't know what was going on so he didn't really want to dress up for something, but in the same since he didn't want to look filthy. He just put on a T-shirt and some jeans and hoped that would suffice. If he had to dress up, he would have hoped the bastard would have given him a better warning.

He walked around his room to get his socks, Rumsfeld trotted in with the hunters shoes in his mouth- however nice the sentiment, they were opposite pairs. Bobby chuckled, scratching the rottweiler on the head and taking the shoes from his mouth. "Thank's, buddy." He commented, and the old boy wagged his tail, taking his seat. He has had Rumsfeld for a long time, a very loyal and smart dog that helped out on hunts every now and again. He was more stay-at-home kind of dog, but so was Bobby, and it just made them a perfect mix. His bound up leg seemed to be healing just fine from the accident last week, and although he's a bit drowsy, Rumsfeld is getting back to his old lazy and grumpy self once again.

Once his socks were on, Bobby walked down the stairs and back into the living room to get the right pair of shoes, sliding them on idly before snatching his keys, and sliding them into his pocket. He had pre-wrote the address Crowley gave to him, having it scrawled messily onto a scrap slip of paper, folding it up and placing it in his front jean pocket.

"Be good," He muttered to Rumsfeld, and even though Bobby knew he couldn't understand English, he still felt as though he still understood what came out of his mouth, as if they had some sort of understanding. "Alright," He cleared his throat, "I'll be back in a little bit." He waved off, before making his way out of his house. The door closed behind him, and he could hear the distant bark of his dog, but ignored it as he walked to his car and started up the engine.

The drive was like a 30 minute nightmare of never being damn sure if that's the right street. He felt like he's made a hundred turns and even backtracked without realizing it, not 100% sure as to where the hell he was going, and just figured he'd play it by ear. The leaves of the tree's were all crisped and falling, the roads covered with them as he drove on by. The closer he got to the actual town the fewer there were on the road, but the tree's didn't look any less dead. He drove past the town and down a lone road with not much to show for it. After about 15 or so minutes he finally reached the city that was nearly detached from Sioux Falls. This was where all the restaurants and actual shops were, a bigger public library and even a few book stores. However the place was as expensive as all hell, so Bobby didn't come down here all too often; avoided it as much as he could, actually.

Most people lived in the section of houses around here, closer to the hospital and main emergency rooms. The houses were nice, but they were always a bit too much. He drove past the large glass building that Crowley worked at, and was heading to the center of the main city. He'd never ventured that far, and he knew he was a bit out of his comfort zone, publicly wise, as he drove further on. He began reading street signs, passing businesses that were flourishing compared to the simple shops near where he lived. He liked the quiet, he'd never get use to being surrounded with so much life.

He finally saw the street sign that had S Phillips Ave on it, and realized he was at this apartment complex system, made up of at least 40 or 50 different buildings. 301, that had to be the building number. He drove around a bit before he spotted it. Bobby looked at it with a bit of discomfort, it had to be at least 8 or 9 stories high. This city was huge, and he never really stopped to think about how small all of it made him feel. This was the rich part of Sioux Falls, and Bobby made a point not to think too deeply on the subject. It was simple, and nothing like New York or Chicago, but it was still surprisingly big all on its own.

Bobby reached for his phone to ask Crowley which room he was in, but he didn't feel it in his front pocket. Bobby raised a brow and patted down his front pocket again, before checking his back pockets as well.

Oh no.

"Goddamn it," Bobby checked a few more times just to make sure he wasn't just imagining things, or if he perhaps didn't pat hard enough, but got the same outcome every time. He checked his car, but his phone wasn't there. Bobby leaned back into his seat, pressing his face into his hands. Well, it's too late to go back now, and he can't just leave. It'd be rude as hell and he damn well knew it. Oh god he didn't want to do this.

He had no idea where he was going. Bobby steered himself and eventually parked the car, taking a deep breath and stepping out. He felt like an idiot, how did he forget to bring his phone, he never forgets his phone. He'd been worrying himself senseless that he forgot the one thing that could get him out of a bad situation, not to mention he has no way of knowing where the hell Crowley's room was.

Bobby walked up to the front and, after a moments hesitation, pushed open the door, eyes scanning the relatively large front area, saw a woman behind a desk. Maybe she knew where Crowley lived. Bobby metaphorically crossed his fingers, he really didn't want to have to go door to door to figure out where he was. He walked up to the employee who was looking at the computer screen in front of her, typing away before her eyes flickered up to him. She shot him a wide smile, which looked practiced- naturally forced.

"Hello, sir." She greeted, her voice was chipper and broad, much like her very much forced smile. "What can I do for you?"

Bobby strolled up a bit closer to the desk before clearing his throat, "Uh, yeah, um- Do you know where a Mister Crowley McLeod lives, by any chance?" She simply nodded her head before looking back at the computer and typing in a few things.

"Not off the top of my head, but I sure can find him for you." She said sweetly, before clicking a few more keys. She furrowed her brows a little in concentration, "A Mr. McLeod? Is that M-a-c or just Mc?" She asked, turning her head to look at him more directly.

"I think it's just M-c." He responded and she nodded, typing a few more things before that forced smile spread on her lips again.

"He's in 66B on the 6th floor," She stated, turning to look at him again, "Will that be all?"

Bobby shook his head, and waved her off, saying a quick thank you for her time before walking over to the nearby elevator, the metallic doors sliding open and closing when he clicked the floor number. He felt it begin to lift when he finally allowed himself to lean against the cool back of the elevator, closing his eyes and pushing out a heavy exhale of air, almost like relief. He felt awkward as hell.

The elevator rose rather slowly, and it really let the hunter reflect on himself as he watched the dial move. He was honestly prepared to go door to door to find Crowley, and the thought of it suddenly startled him. It was really weird, and the entire notion of talking to countless strangers to figure out where Crowley was hadn't even occurred to him as not being the only option; he hadn't even considered there'd be someone at a front desk, or that he could have drove home and snatched his phone, telling him he'd be a bit late rather than go through the embarrassment.

He was so irrationally dead set on being here, he hadn't properly gone through all his options. It was very unlike him to do something like that.

Which also brought up another point, why was Crowley inviting him up to his home? Bobby didn't even think about that when he got here, and just took it as it was.

He was over thinking things.

He just needed to relax, and take a breather. Crowley had said he wasn't having a good week, so he probably invited him over to vent, which was a pretty valid idea. The elevator stopped on the sixth floor, and a woman with a small child holding her hand was waiting at the door. She ignored him entirely as he passed her and went on to where ever she was going; he didn't give her a second glance.

The hallway was very.. modern. If that's the word he's looking for. Simple white walls with at least 10 or 11 doors on either side of the hall spaced out between twos. There was a table placed here and there with something to make the hallway look somewhat decorative, but there wasn't anything outstanding or noteworthy about the place. Realistic paintings of flowers put up here and there in direct parallels with one another. It reminded him of being in a hospital. However the floors had this tan close to the floor carpet, rather than those white and blue tiles that were fairly generic.

Bobby felt out of place, but swallowed it down and began walking through the hallway, he looked at room numbers, counting them out in his head when he finally came across 66B towards the end of the hallway. It should have been as easy as knocking, and it was, but he found himself unable to raise his hand.

Jesus, Bobby just knock on the damn door. It's not like he's gonna break it down with an axe and shoot you. Now Bobby knew he was acting irrationally, and Crowley wasn't going to kill him, at least not in any way that Bobby suspects. He sighed heavily, he knew he as being ridiculous. He raised his hand and knocked, but before he could get his third knock in, he heard the door knob twist.

Crowley stood there, and smiled up at the hunter, "Ah! There you are, I wasn't sure if you were going to come or not." Bobby you're late as all get out, "Come on in," He opened the door wide and stepped aside, letting the hunter walk past him, and finally into his home.

The apartment was much nicer than the hallway, to say the least.

It was a simple place, from what he could tell; The kitchen and the living room seemed to be attached, and only really separated from a counter, but it wasn't small or cramped, it was pretty spacious to be honest. There was a couch facing a wall that had a TV in front of it that was on and playing some documentary, however the volume was on low so he couldn't really tell what was going on. There was a book case filled with movies off to the side of the TV, and a painting above that. The kitchen had a few things on the oven, and Bobby noticed that there was a hallway that went on right passed it, and he could see at least three doors going down it.

The walls were all a creme looking white, and very plain. Everything was organized and put away, and it was very open. There were two windows against the back wall to the left of the TV and couch, and was directly in front of the door. Kitchen to his right. The one thing, however, that he did notice, was the severe lack of personal items. He didn't see any pictures or mail laying around, he didn't see anything that would give this part of the house that touch, other than the painting, but it looks as if it came with the apartment. Maybe he kept all those things in the back room?

He turned to look at Crowley as he was shutting the door behind him. He ordered Bobby to take off his shoes as he made his way back over to the kitchen. Bobby obeyed silently, putting them in the closet as Crowley instructed.

Crowley was barefoot. We'll, sort of, he was wearing these black socks, but no shoes, and Bobby found the sight to be really unnerving, but not necessarily bad. He wasn't even wearing his suit, and Bobby had come to assume that it was actually apart of his skin; no, Crowley was wearing this long sleeved black turtle-neck sweater and some plain kaki's that didn't look nearly as expensive as he dress pants, or 'causal wear' as Bobby likes to call it, his normally in-place hair was a bit messy and out of place, natural in its own way. If this is what Crowley wore to dress down, he didn't even want to begin to imagine what kinds of clothes he thinks makes him look like a hobo. Probably Bobby's entire wardrobe, but he found no reason to dwell on that for now.

Crowley looked up from what he was doing over at the stove, and it snapped Bobby out of where ever his mind was wandering to. "Come take a seat," He gestured to the chairs along side the counter, they were a ways off the ground and Bobby thought he'd struggle a bit more getting into the seat than he really did.

Crowley had turned back to the stove and was mixing something, and Bobby realized for the first time how truly hungry he was. He didn't think about the fact that Crowley could have been making dinner when he was on his way over here, and he didn't get why the fact lingering longer in his thoughts than it did.

"What are you making?" Bobby asked, resting his arms on the counter top.

"Something I figured you might like," he answered, never turning to look at the hunter as he stirred the pot. He put down the spoon before checking something in the oven, he turned after that to look at the hunter. "It's just a stew of sorts, nothing elaborate. I don't know the last time you've had a home-cooked meal," He shrugged, looking over his shoulder at the food before looking back at the hunter, "Nobody should go that long with just take-out."

Crowley knew about the take out? Well- It was kind of hard to ignore it. His trash can was filled with Chinese food boxes, or take-out from the near by burger joint, a few other places he didn't care to name at that moment. He felt a little embarrassed, but Crowley didn't seem to be mocking him for his food choices, or scolding him the way he knew Sam would. He just seemed to take it as fact and left it as it was. It was a nice touch, but he felt guilty, as if he had forced Crowley to make him food, or some how convinced him to be a burden. However, Crowley didn't seem to mind, and Bobby had to remind himself that Crowley had chosen to make food before he even knew what was going on. He was being nice and Bobby was over thinking things again. Bobby internally cursed himself, he needed to relax and calm down. It's just food.

Crowley finished making their meal after that, and they started off in relatively average conversation, just normal things, like how the others day was and the weather; it was simple, easy, and idle conversation that Bobby never really realized he had missed in the first place. He was so used to being asked for favors, he was used to pressing and cryptic conversation that he had to decipher and figure out what they're hunting, he was tired of it, actually.

This, this was something he didn't get to do very much.

Crowley took a seat across from him, setting out the food and handing the hunter some silverware as they talked. And all of it was just so normal.

"-never does as she's told. She acts as if the company would happily bend to her every whim." Crowley muttered bitterly, pulling out a few drinks from his fridge, "Are you more of a Ale or Bourbon kind of person?" Crowley asked, "I have a few brands in here that might catch your fancy."

"Any beer?"

Crowley shot him a look that just dripped exasperated sarcasm, a raised eyebrow that said 'really?' and Bobby wasn't sure if he should feel embarrassed or offended, so he ended up wading in-between.

"Robert I understand you like your rotgut, but live a little, seriously." Crowley smirked at him, "Something that doesn't taste like oil should spike something of interest." His voice was teasing, however Bobby figured he was half-serious about it. "Now, Ale or Bourbon? I also have some Craig-" He cut himself off, "I have a few things, actually."

"Drinker?" Bobby said lightly, and Crowley grinned faintly to himself.

"Only of the finer drinks, love." He drawled, "And no more drastic than you."

"In that case It'd be alcoholic." The hunter chuckled, dodging as Crowley tossed a rag at him.

"Shut up you burly bastard," The man muttered, however the teasing smirk was still on his face, "Now seriously, what would you like to drink?" He turned to look back into his fridge, eyeing down the contents. Bobby had peered inside and was surprised at how clean and organized it was; he shouldn't have been, though. Everything in this place was pretty well put together, along with the man all these things belonged to.

"Whatever you're havin' is fine with me." He answered after a moment, and the other seemed to nod.

"Craig it is." He announced, closing the fridge door. Crowley moved swiftly over his kitchen floor and reached up to one of the top shelves, opening up the cabinet doors and inside had a few assortment of drinks, organized in some way that only Crowley would recognize off that back, snatching out a familiar bottle of amber liquid that Bobby remembers seeing some time before. It was that time that Crowley had insisted that he re-payed Bobby for working on his car; the memory set off to the back of his mind. That was a bit over a year ago, which was crazy to think about.

Crowley pulled out the bottle and closed the door, rummaging through another cabinet and grabbed two clear glasses, he set them on the counter before shifting himself to sit. Bobby took another spoonful of the food Crowley made.

It was really good, to be honest. He hadn't expected Crowley to be such a Martha Stewart in the kitchen when he first met the guy, but then again he never really thought that Crowley would ever make him dinner the first time he met the guy either. It was warm, and spicy, and Crowley was right, it's been a long time since he's had a home cooked meal. He'd make some food every now and again, but it's not like he's some master chef, and he doesn't really know how to make much. Take-out loses it's initial taste after a while and it grows bitter, nearly tasteless. But this, this was good, change was good.

Crowley poured the amber liquid into one of the glasses, sliding the glass over to the hunter as he began filling up his own cup.

Bobby took a sip of his glass before going back to eating his food, "So uh," He said between mouthfuls, "What was it you were saying before? About that secretary?"

"Abaddon?" Crowley answered bitterly, "The little too-good-to-be-doing-files little scamp." He brought his glass to his mouth, both hands wrapped around it as he took a small drink. "I wish she'd just quit, we all know she doesn't want to be doing any work for anybody but herself. And there's no chance she's getting Lilith's or, for gods sake my job," Crowley's words dripped almost venomously from his lips, like they burned him, "so she's stuck in her position until she leaves to become a hippie or something."

"I don't think she's out for world peace," Bobby commented, "Sounds like she can't stand you."

"Oh I know she can't stand me," Crowley didn't sound all too put off about that fact, if anything, he sounded smug. "It's not like she can do anything about it, unless she takes matters into her own hands, and by that I mean finally get out of the job. Lilith's had it to her wits end with Abaddon, I don't understand why she doesn't just get rid of her." He set down his glass, "If I were to pull half of what Abaddon does daily, I'd be out of the job."

Bobby hummed in response, finishing up the food in his bowl.

Crowley sighed, "I can handle Abaddon, she's a hassle, but I'm sure she's not something I'd really have to worry about." He chuckled, "It's funny, she has more bark than she does bite as far as I can tell." He twisted his spoon into his bowl, not all that hungry as he probably was when this little thing started. He looked up to see Bobby empty bowl before getting up, grabbing his bowl. "Done?" Bobby nodded, and Crowley began the process of cleaning up.

"I don't know Crowley, she seems to get under your skin."

"She gets under everyone's skin," he elaborated, "It's all she's good at doing."

"Then why's she working there?"

"To be honest, I've no idea." Crowley placed the dirty dishes into his sink as he brushed off the counter, collecting silverware and pots as he cleared them out. "Lilith uses her for things I don't keep track of. She's not in my division, so I don't have access to her files, regardless of my position." He didn't have to say it, but Bobby could tell that the little fact crawled under his skin and festered more than he'd like to admit. Crowley rinsed off a few dishes and attempted to make it look partly presentable before retaking his seat.

He grabbed his Craig once again and took another sip, "What about you, love?" Crowley asked, "What do you do for a career?"

"I used to be a mechanic," Bobby began, looking down at his drink. What he does isn't nearly as refined or interesting as what Crowley does, he doesn't get paid nearly as much, doesn't get the same respect, even if they have been working in the same town for about the same amount of time. "After my wi-" Bobby cleared his throat, "Karen, died, I had sort of shifted into research and doing repairs every now and again for people who need it. It pays well, and I don't have to leave my house that much," He shrugged almost nonchalantly, " It keeps me busy." He answered.

Crowley was quiet a moment, looking over the hunters face. There was a question on his lips but he seemed to take it back and switch it with another after a moment of thought, "What kinds of things do you repair?"

"Car's, usually." He looked up, and found this nearly unreadable expression the the mans face. Like this genuine interest and professional curiosity, and something else Bobby couldn't quite put his finger on. "Really any vehicle, but you already knew that."

"Well of course," Crowley said a tad sarcastically, "But do you fix anything else?"

"I can do every day appliances, but for the most part I work with engines." He thought for a moment, "I've fixed a computer once or twice as well."

"Oh, you're so talented." Crowley mocked, grinning up from his glass of Craig, earning a playful glare from the hunter. He chuckled before going on, "What about your research? What kinds of things do you look up when you're all alone in that big ol' house of yours?" What the hell was he implying. Bobby felt his cheeks heat up, before shaking his head at the man.

"Well it's not that-"

"The tint in your cheeks says otherwise, darling."

He felt even more flustered, but pestered on. "It's animals, Norse mythology, or just mythology in general." He cleared his throat, feeling suddenly really uncomfortable under the others gaze. Crowley perked up at the sound of mythology, and started asking more questions along those lines, abandoning the little suggestive implications behind; Bobby was grateful for it.

The one thing, if Bobby had to pick one, that he really liked about Crowley, was the wide range of topics they could jump from, and how in depth he seemed to know each one. They went on about Mythology and stories for over a good hour before the topic changed to how they feel on certain religious practices or which ones they believed were more efficient, but neither had any real grounds seeing as evidently, neither were very religious. Another thing, if Bobby had to point it out, was that Crowley was an incredible listener. Bobby loved the fact that he could talk nonstop for seemingly forever, and Crowley wouldn't interrupt. He put in a comment or two, but he'd never deter the conversation away, or change it when Bobby's in the middle of explaining something; not to mention how interested he looked every time Bobby opened his mouth. It made Bobby feel a lot better about thinking that he bored Crowley at that party a week or so ago.

Most people Bobby talked to would go on for hours and hours and wouldn't even let Bobby get his own word in unless they actually needed it. The only time he found people listened was when he was explaining how to do something, or when he say's he'll figure it out or get it done. Besides the boys, he doesn't get a word out socially, he never really did. So having Crowley listen to him with such interest with that he was saying was almost refreshing. It made him feel better about opening his mouth.

They jumped from topic to topic, and it was about 2 in the morning when Crowley had finally noticed the time, feeling rather shocked and confused at how quickly the time seemed to escape him.

"It's really late," He'd said, checking his watch to make sure that was right.

"I should probably get going then-" Bobby made to stand, and Crowley joined him. He grabbed the hunters empty cup, quickly placing it in his sink as he walked Bobby to the door. Bobby snatched his shoes, feeling a slight yawn touch his lips but he fought the urge to go on with it; quickly slipping them on.

"We should do this more," Crowley said as he reached for the door handle, opening it up so Bobby could take his leave. "I do rather enjoy your company."

"Same here," He shuffled his feet until he was standing in the doorway, "Thanks for the food."

"No need, it was my pleasure," Crowley looked down at his feet, shifting a moment before looking back up. "I'll call you up, sometime. Good night."

There was a warm buzz between them, Bobby felt it but shook the feeling from his shoulders. There was no call for thinking like that.

"Night." And with that, Bobby took his leave, the shorter male shutting the door behind him as he left.

He felt good, to say the least. That's the longest he willingly stayed at someones house, and he still felt somewhat reluctant to leave. He never was one for extended social interaction with really anyone, even the boys at times, it just took a lot out of him. But he didn't feel so drained afterwards, if anything he felt a bit refreshed, like he could breath for the first time in a long time. The feeling all on its own was rather unsettling, but it was a start, maybe at some point he'll finally crawl out of this shell he buried himself in.

He didn't think that'd really ever happen, but maybe he'll stick his head out a bit more often.

The drive home subdued a great deal of the buzz from dinner and Bobby was finally feeling the effects of the day wear on him. He watched as the city lights disappeared from beyond his tail lights as he drove on, and it was dark. He made it home a little after 3 in the morning, turning off his car and trudging into the front door of his house; he could hear the clinking of Rumsfeld's chain collar around his neck as he seemed to get up from where ever he was resting, trotting his way to the door to greet Bobby as he made his way inside.

The hunter pulled off his shoes and tossed them to the side, which was a bit of a struggle with Rumsfeld nudging his nose against his legs. He was gone for a good while, but not too long; at least it certainly didn't feel like it. Bobby walked passed his phone and answering machine and headed directly to bed. He has all day tomorrow to work on hunts but right now he was just tired. Sluggishly, he made his way up the steps and trudged his way down the hall and to his bed, only bothering to slide off his belt, tossing it over the side of his bed to deal with in the morning, sliding off his pants before sliding under the covers. Bobby could hear the chair of Rumsfeld's collar as he followed into the room, jumping up onto the end of his bed and collapsing his heavy body.

As the weeks went by Bobby heard more and more from Crowley. The business man would text him randomly through out the day, and sometimes invite him out or ask him these bizarre questions; much of them along the lines of food, but he'd receive the odd 'Does Poland have an empire' sometimes followed by a 'never mind, don't answer that.' Needless to say, they were definitely something he found he looked forward to. Doing the same thing day in and day out like a record grew dull, even if you really did enjoy what you do [which Bobby can't necessarily say is false] but having that little switch in the day, the weird and sometimes nice messages helped him get through it. He was so used to Sam checking up on him, he was still getting used to the extra eyes.

Not to mention Crowley visited. A lot.

Sometimes in the past few weeks he stopped by after work with a drink, sometimes he wouldn't, but it was more often than not. Bobby knew that he was getting a bit behind on his research, and at one point when Crowley had stopped by he'd even helped out a bit. He was able to get through twice as many things in half the time, and they still had some time to talk and bitch at each other about their day. They've become quite the drinking duo in the past month or so. They've gotten into this backwards little routine, and Bobby was starting to grow accustomed to Crowley just showing up at his house at this point. At one point he had just gotten back from the store and Crowley was already sitting on his couch, texting someone with a book laid open on his lap; it wasn't unpleasant, and they'd just worked around each other.

Sometimes they wouldn't even talk, just read.

Bobby found out really quick how much of a dog person Crowley was; Rumsfeld adored him, and always got really excited every time Crowley came through the door. Bobby would find him curled up beside Crowley on the couch when the man's reading a book, or resting around his feet. It was like he was a totally different person when Crowley was around; he was a lot more laid back, and lazy when it came to Bobby, grumpy but a very loyal dog, which Crowley had the nerve to say they had very similar personalities. But with Crowley, it was like the rottweiler was a puppy all over again; but Bobby wasn't complaining. Crowley had also been caught giving him treats, and again Bobby didn't comment on it.

It was like Crowley really opened up the previously cramped up and stuffy house he lived in, opened up windows and pulled back shades, and at some point even put away some of the books Bobby had laying around. It was the little things that brightened up the house, made it livable again since- well, since Karen died.

Bobby remembered thinking he was some uptight bastard who thought the world revolved around him; he gave off that stuffy better-than-you air when you first meet him, and he still acts like Mr. High and Mighty, but he seemed to have relaxed around him. Like he had more room to talk- and although Bobby hates to admit it, the bastard was really starting to grow on him.

As the temperature outside began to drop, the longer Crowley's stays would get. The snow falling outside had more than once trapped Crowley's car, and they'd have to heat it up enough to get it through the Salvage Yard until he hit the road. Bobby didn't mind the company at all, or the extra hassle.

It was beginning to near Christmas, and he had recently gotten a call from Sam, saying he was bringing a friend of his along, (Insisting it wasn't a girlfriend) and hoped he didn't mind. Not really sure why he'd think he'd mind, it wasn't the first time he'd brought a friend along, but didn't bother fighting the point. He as of yet has heard anything from Dean, and still hadn't gone out shopping to buy them anything for the season. Crowley had offered to help, and Bobby was wondering on whether or not to take him up on his offer, that much he hadn't quite figured out.