Characters are not mine- A story request from my Tumblr-

Anon: Prompt for crobby: remember how emotional bobby was after he found out crowley gave him the use of his legs again? Id like to know how bobby would ask or find out why crowley did what he did and if that was the spark that started their relationship. Im sad it doesnt get addressed in the show. It's like a small gift is dropped on the characters and viewers but isnt explained

/Other Anon: crobby idea: why would crowley give bobby his ability to walk but then hold his soul hostage? bobby summons crowley after the getting his soul back because he wants answers but the demon refuses to answer. it's not until bobby pushes really hard that crowley admits that he's intrigued by bobby and wants to get to know him. really? well he has a funny way of showing it...

A/N: I realize these two concepts were similar, and felt they could easily be integrated with one another into a same based story.

Fair Warning: Fluff.

If there was any more of a cliche way of describing what it was like to be a hunter, Bobby wouldn't hesitate to throw the term "black and white" straight out the window.

Hunting wasn't black and white, and anyone who claims otherwise was either, number one, not a hunter, or number two, not paying close enough attention.

Hunting, in retrospect, would seem black and white- you killed the monsters, the demons, the witches. Stopping these entities of evil from harming good kind folk that live their lives completely oblivious to the horrors of the world. That was the idea anyways, and for all most people know, that's all there was.

But, there was this.. grey area, when it came to hunting. There was always this blind spot where killing the monster won't save lives, and that stopping these killings would only bring about worse endeavors. Where a hunter is searching desperately for a third option, rather than picking the less of the two evils, because there's no way in hell they'd be able to live with themselves, knowing they could have prevented this torment if they were to just find another way.

Bobby knew grey areas, hell he lived grey area's he couldn't do anything to help nor prevent, and after a while, it's something he had to learn to live with; which was far easier said than done.

In hunting, grey area's were the epitome of hunts- you had to know every ounce of information before heading face first into something a hunter could never really prepare for. Of course, that can vary from hunt to hunt.

Bobby can remember countless Rawheads, and numerous Vamps that were all run of the mill hunts. From Witches to Shifters, and just about anything in between that were just simple hunts- there was no real worries of a global epidemic simply because he ganked and offed a few loose ends. That wasn't his problem.

What his problem was, was this large, gaping, grey area that had been given to him on a silver platter that he had no idea what to do with; all because of one little demon.

Well, perhaps "little demon" was a rather large understatement, if considered that the aforementioned "little demon" was the current King of Hell.

The King of Hell that had willing given him legs, even though he never thought nor dare ask for them in their little arrangement- to be completely honest, he hadn't even considered it an option. If Castiel saw that he was too far gone and broken to fix, a damn angel of the lord, then how could a mere demon do what an angel couldn't? So, rightfully, he tried not to think about his predicament and pretend that everything was fine, that he didn't mind being in a wheelchair, even if, in the same sense, it bothered him more than the fact that he had even sold his soul.

This very specific grey area, had more than just giving demons- it had that singular demon who wanted to keep his soul, leave the legs, and let everything settle after the Apocalypse. Which, the said demon, had done everything in his power to prevent. That's what all of this was about.

Strange demons, Apocalypse aversions, and Angels that happened to be worse than demons and nothing seemed to make any sense anymore.

That was the bad part about hunting now-a-days.

It was no longer as black and white as it used to be.

And although this was a rather big problem, it just wasn't one that Bobby was currently worried about.

No, what he was worried about was his soul- one that he had finally gained back after a few choice words and a bit of help from his boys in Scotland. To be honest, he expected a bit more of a fight, not the reluctance that Crowley had given him. And it wasn't just his soul that he was worried about, it was the fashion that it was given and taken- It was everything and anything and it was all really becoming confusing and jumbled and Bobby was sick of all of it.

Bobby wanted things to go back into the way they used to be. Back to when hunts were just hunts, and they didn't leave that bitter roundabout taste on his tongue that told him business would never be quite settled and you're still thinking about him, aren't you?

Jesus, he couldn't seem to stop thinking since everything happened.

He just wanted to know why.

Why what? He didn't know, but he wanted an explanation.

Maybe to why he was feeling so off as of late, why Sam had to be the one to pull down Lucifer, why Castiel was going rouge, and why Crowley was suddenly the only thing that seemed to matter anymore.

It was always Crowley, and he needed to know why.

Was it the kiss? Bobby didn't think so, couldn't imagine why that would be the case, of all things.

No, if anything it was the utter reluctance in Crowley. How he just didn't want to give his soul back- unlike how other demons don't seem to care about the soul itself, but rather the concept of giving it back. The whole aspect being mundane and the whole situation simply being business; One more soul to the call and the like, but it wasn't like that with Crowley, and Bobby just couldn't explain why.

So maybe that's why he was making the effort to actually summon the bastard, maybe that's why Crowley was standing in front of him, shell shocked and confused in the middle of a devils trap, tongue in cheek as he tried to come up with some sort of excuse but none seemed to come. All of this felt ill-fitted, and Crowley was actually shifting on his feet, as his words seemed to very well fail him.

"I'm a demon," he said eventually, as if it would answer all the 'whys' that Bobby could come up with, "A soul is a soul, and I had one in my grasp, why exactly would I return something I could much rather keep?"

Fair is fair, and although that's probably the answer Bobby wanted to hear, it wasn't exactly the one he needed to. Instead of saying so, he opted to roll his eyes, pressing his tailbone against his desk and quirking his brow.

"Fine, I can believe that, but then what about the legs?"

Now, the legs were something else that Bobby couldn't explain.

"Well," Crowley seemed to chew on his words, "you couldn't have very well been a benefactor immobile, now could you?"

Now, while this may have been true, he truly didn't need his legs to finish off the Apocalypse. He didn't need them in order to play his part, and although he was grateful to be back on two feet, that couldn't be the reason why Crowley, without being told to, granted him the ability to walk.

He was a demon; nothing he should ever do should benefit someone more than it would benefit himself, outside of an actual deal. Bobby never asked, so therefore, Crowley shouldn't have cared.

Bobby squinted at the demon, "Well, me bein' able to walk doesn't exactly benefit you either, so what gives?"

And there he goes again, chewing on his words. He was holding back, picking carefully, and that means that his answers are only going to be partially honest, if at all.

"Crowley, it's a simple goddamn question," Bobby sighed heavily, "Why did you give me back my legs? There was no benefit for you to gain, and demon's aren't suddenly generous. You didn't just give 'em back out of the goodness of your heart, so why the hell give them over?"

Crowley was still, "I told you-"

"Well, that ain't the right answer and we both damn well know it, so spill." Bobby snapped, causing the demon to falter.

Which was.. strange, considering that this is Crowley he's talking to, and Crowley doesn't falter.

"I uhm," Crowley paused, shifting on his feet before pushing his hands deep into his jacket pockets, "I could uh- tell how much you needed them back," he began, "how much the Misfit Twins needed you to be on your feet, and honestly, it was just a.. well, small price to pay in the grand scheme of things, and you're honestly downright useless when you're not running around trying to save the day. I felt that it was a decent opportunity to give a little, rather than take." All the while, Crowley kept his eyes steady on the red paint under his shoes, tracing the outline of the devils trap with his eyes to seem nonchalant, although Bobby never missed the slight pink rise into his cheeks.

Bobby was dumbstruck for an abundance of moments, watching the demon carefully, "but why me?" he eventually asked, "I doubt you're this giving to other.. customers."

If the red in the demons cheeks was anything to go by, Bobby could tell he was right on the dot with that one.

Crowley coughed, "No," and that word seemed to be his take-all, give-all word he seemed to be looking for. "No, I don't."

Bobby was quiet, a silent push for the other to continue, which he did so reluctantly.

"Look, Robert, I don't know where you think I'm going with all this, and I certainly don't understand what you think I'm going to say-"

"I think you have a hell of a lot to say, but you're too damn embarrassed to say it," Bobby snapped, squinting his eyes at the demon, "look, I may be old, but I'm not naive, and I sure as hell ain't senile," stepping forward, in the moment, might not have been the brightest idea, because the moment it happened, Crowley flinched as if he'd been burned, and the sudden reaction forced the hunter to lose his train of thought for a lot longer than he dare admit. It took a bit, before he seemed to remember what he was going to say, careful to go about doing it slowly; if he'd known Crowley would be jumpy, he would have gone about this differently, but it's a bit too late for that now.

"-and it's been... bothering me, since you did it." Bobby continued, watching as Crowley eventually uplifted his head, confusion sprawled on his features.

"What? You don't like being able to walk?"

"No, I like walking, I like my legs, but, what I don't like, is the fact that I've got this godawful gnawing feeling like there's strings attached to my legs, and that you'll eventually be back to collect, so explain to me again. Why?"

Crowley looked trapped, his shoulders tense and posture looking ready to split, but being incapable of doing so.

His expression was ineffable, almost like distress and borderline on admitting something he was afraid to, and maybe something else; and all of this was just another big grey area. Talking to a demon, pressuring a demon, all of it was a big uncomfortable grey area he didn't know what to do with.

"I-" Crowley paused, he's been doing a great deal of that, which was very undemony and extremely un-Crowley-like. More grey area's, more and more and more, just piling up, and Bobby didn't bother to take notes. Crowley was shifting again, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and between his teeth, brows furrowed uncertainly.

"I wanted to-" he pressed his lips into a thin line, dropping his gaze to the floor, "to help, if that makes any sense."

"It doesn't."

"Robert," his name almost came up as a plea, and Bobby wasn't sure what to make of that. "I don't-" his hands slipped from his pockets, moving to fiddle and straighten out his tie to keep them occupied. "I can't quite explain it myself, can't we just leave it at that and let me go? Can you not ask so many damn questions and take a gift without questioning it's origin?"

"Crowley, you know I can't damn well do that."

"And why not?" his sigh sounded both like a whine and resigned and Crowley looked less frustrated and more bothered as the seconds ticked by.

"Because you're hidin' somethin', and I don't appreciate it," Bobby shot back, "and I really don't like that it involves me."

"The 'involved' is actually optional, just so you know," Crowley muttered bitterly, "any and all strings that could possibly be attached to those legs of yours, is all your doing, and your choice. Not mine."

"You're not making any sense-"

"And you don't know how to take a hint." Crowley snapped, causing the hunter to blink. When Crowley didn't receive the response he was opting for, he groaned. "You are such an idiot sometimes, it's utterly inconceivable."

"What are you-"

"I'm fond of you, you blubbering idiot." Crowley hissed, "For the love of sin, it shouldn't be so hard for you to pick up on. You spend so much time working yourself up on negative signals, that you go out of your way to ignore any sort of damn generous offer. And when you do, it's followed by 20 questions, and ungratefulness, I don't even know why I'm bothering with you."

Bobby was quiet a long, dragging moment, staring at Crowley with an expression that held the lack thereof expression. All because of his use of present tense, no doubt. He could have probably come up with some sort of "evil scheme" that he planned on making up, but that's not what came out of his mouth.

Crowley intook a shuddering sigh, dropping his gaze again. "And here I am, making a besotted fool of myself. Now, Robert, would you kindly break the seal so I can leave? You've gotten your answer-"

"No."

Crowley paused as if he didn't hear him at first, "what?"

Bobby shook his head, "no."

"No?"

"No." Bobby took a careful step forward, eyes trained on the demon who was eyeing him skeptically, "Not until we settle this."

"Settle what?"

"This." And sometimes there wasn't a grey area, but rather a full spectrum of colours that didn't have specific names quite yet. Bobby moved closer until he was standing inside the trap, his fingers brushing forward against the demon's jackets folds, before pressing forward.

What happened next could probably explain why the grey area was replaced, as lips brushed and uncertainly intensified until it melted, with blues and greens and colours that don't technically exist in his own spectrum, but resided in the spectrum nonetheless. There were no whys, no greys, and no hunts, just this; whatever it was, all because of something as silly as legs, and his mind being just a bit more than off as of late.