Hey guys, look at me branching out with writing topics. I didn't really realise how dark this was gonna be until I started writing it. It does end happier than it starts, but there is a good chunk of suicidal/depressive thoughts. So beware of that, this is your TW.
This fic was inspired by a cut piece of script that I saw in a tumblr post (link below) which is where some of the dialogue comes from. I read it, and since I always loved Crowley, I felt like I needed to write something for this to let him have a least a little bit of happiness. And it just poured out of me, which is always nice when writing.
I also realised that this is only my second solo fic for Crobby in ten years of writing fanfiction and shipping them - what the hell?
Anyway, I hope you like this one, let me know if you do, much love xox

Link: tumblr DOT com /m-y-p-a-s-s-i-o-n-s/697802194581405696/tn3z6s3ernv3

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Everything was shite. Nothing mattered anymore. What was even the point of being good at your job if it didn't even mean anything? If after all of your struggles and sacrifices, you were still left with nothing?

Crowley's eyesight swam as he looked over what felt like the five hundredth scroll of parchment that day. He was miserable, and honestly, he couldn't remember the last time that he had been anything but miserable.

He rubbed his tired eyes and went to take a drink from his tumbler, only to find it empty. The demon snapped his fingers and the glass refilled – another bottle empty. He sighed and read the same line again. His brain just wouldn't make sense of the words though, and eventually he gave up trying.

"Enough, I'm done. Everybody out!" Crowley snapped suddenly. The lesser demons looked at each other, "Now!" he shouted.

The demons fled, leaving Crowley alone with his scotch and his thoughts. Though the longer he sat on his throne, drinking and thinking, the more miserable he became. Memories from his pathetic human life came floating intrusively into his consciousness, and that was just the icing on the cake. What was the point of it all?

Crowley had spent half of his human life drunk, but getting drunk as a demon was a lot harder, and required a hell of a lot of alcohol – something he wasn't short on. By the time he was properly sloshed, it was close to midnight, and that was when the thought struck him.

What if he just ended it all? Just decided he was done for good and ceased to exist? The more he pondered the idea, the sweeter it became. He laughed to himself, an almost maniacal, bitter laugh. How had the thought never occurred to him before? He supposed he had just gone through the motions, but how long could one do that before the monotony of living forever as a demon became so appalling that death seemed like the better option?

Apparently Crowley had reached his limit.

Outright suicide wasn't really his style though, so the question was; how would his death occur? Plenty had tried to kill him in the past, obviously none had succeeded. He straight up refused to let another demon do it, so who then? Angels? Hell no. The Winchesters? Ugh, no. Then it came to him, the perfect person, someone he'd been fond of for some time.

He sighed, gazing around the room, finding no joy in anything he saw, and then clicked his fingers, disappearing and immediately reappearing in the darkened, musky library of a house he knew rather well, considering.

A gun cocked from behind him and Crowley took a swig from his scotch bottle – he'd forgone a glass hours ago - before turning around to face the hunter he'd come to see.

Bobby Singer looked as tired as ever in the dull lamp light of his desk, but he held the pistol steady as he pointed it at the demon.

"What the fuck do you think yer doin' in my house demon?"

"Visiting a friend?" Crowley tried, then chuckled sadly. He took another drink and then spread his arms out in a T, "Go on then, shoot me if you like…please?" he added weakly.

"Are-are you drunk?" Bobby questioned, disbelief clear on his face.

"Finally, yes," he sighed, bittersweet. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, waiting. The shot didn't come though.

"Didn't even know demons could get drunk," Bobby stated, lowering his gun.

"This is bottle seven" Crowley told him, bringing his arms back in but raising the bottle of scotch in his hand, then he drew his gaze to the bottle itself, "or eight," his face scrunched up in a frown, "nah, its seven…'cause…anyway, the point is that I'm drunk and miserable, and thought…who do I know that would just mercifully put me out of my misery, and d'you know who I landed on?"

"I'm guessing it was lucky, lil ole me?"

"You are clever sometimes Robert, so clever," he smiled emotionlessly as he walked away from the library through to the living room.

Bobby sat his gun down on his desk, picked up his beer instead, and followed the demon, "Why me? Surely there are plenty of demons alone who would be thrilled to off you?"

"'Course there are, but why would I give 'em the satisfaction? Least this way I'll go with a shred of dignity, unlike my human death," Crowley sat down on the old couch, nursing his bottle. "Did I ever tell you how I died, the first time?" he asked, eyes boring a hole into the coffee table.

Bobby sighed and sat down in his single seater, "No, you haven't," he responded before taking a swig of his beer.

"I wasn't a good man. Obviously. I lied, and cheated, and…everyone who crossed my path was worse for it. My friends, my son…" he took a long drink from his bottle before continuing, "and what did I get for all of my sins? My soul?" he glanced up at Bobby, "Nothing."

Bobby stayed silent, letting Crowley tell his story.

"I died in a gutter, in a puddle of my own sick. I was buried in a pauper's grave. No one came to my funeral. No one cared. The world was better for having me gone," he shook his head and took another mouthful of scotch. "But then…I became a demon. And I was a bloody great demon," Crowley laughed darkly, eyes full of memories. "All the things that made me detestable on Earth, made me a hero in Hell. I shot through the ranks, I did things…you don't know the half of what I did. I reached the mountaintop. And what do I get for all my triumphs?" his voice was raised at that point, it should have brought a reaction from the hunter in the chair across from him, but he stayed quiet, just observing the demon, listening to him. "Nothing," he muttered, suddenly deflated as he cast his eyes down to his hands, nails scratching at the label of his scotch, "it was all for nothing."

"So, what? You came here expecting me to off ya because you feel like you amounted to bubkis in both lives? You're the fucking King of Hell, ya twat. You just told me yourself that yer a great demon," Bobby pointed out.

He couldn't bring himself to look Bobby in the eyes, "What does it matter? I hate it…hate myself."

"Well join the fuckin' club, Princess. Doesn't mean you just get to check out," Bobby argued, getting up from his seat.

Crowley didn't know what to say, he hadn't expected a pep talk from the hunter. He drained the rest of the bottle in his hand and sat it on the coffee table, uncertain where to go from there. Should he leave and try to find someone else to do the job? Maybe he could provoke Bobby into shooting him…

Calmer, Bobby said, "I'm going to bed. Take the couch for the night, they reckon it gets better in the morning. In my experience ya just have a killer headache. Hope demons don't get hangovers."

Bobby moved to leave the room, but Crowley was faster – demon powers and all that – except that had made the world spin and he'd had to clutch the hunter's arm to steady himself, "Bollocks," he cursed, then once he could, he looked at Bobby. Something about the man gave him a flare of warmth, "Thank you, Robert," he whispered, staring at the unkempt beard, eyes rising up his face slowly. There was a beat of silence between them and then Crowley realised he had planted his mouth on the hunter's tasting the beer he'd been drinking as he dipped his tongue between dry lips. He pulled back, licking his own lips, not quite registering the stricken look on Bobby's face, "Mmm, wanted to do that again for ages," he admitted before heading back over to the couch and flopping down onto it rather unceremoniously, and ignoring the fact that Bobby hadn't moved a muscle.

After a long minute, Bobby finally left the room muttering, "Bloody demons."

Surprisingly, sleep came to Crowley easily that night and the next thing he knew, he was blinking in bright sunlight and then there was a gruff voice, accompanied by footsteps, coming closer.

"Morning Princess, sleep well?" Bobby queried, holding two mugs and handing one to Crowley before going to sit down in his usual single seater.

Crowley sat up properly, careful not to spill his drink, "Thanks, best rest I've had in a while actually," he took a sip from the mug. The coffee was strong and black, but good as it burned slightly going down. Somehow, waking like that had made everything not seem quite so awful that morning. The memory of the previous night lingered in his thoughts though, "Uh, apologies about...last night," he said awkwardly while staring into the black depths of his mug.

Bobby hummed, tapping his mug with his nail for a few beats before he spoke, "Yer not alone in feeling like that ya know. Just cause yer a demon, don't mean that things can't be shit for you, but you just gotta suck it up and keep on keepin' on. You think I haven't wanted to take the coward's way out? I 'ave, plenty of times, but every day I get up and find a reason to keep goin' and if I can, than you can too."

"And what reason, pray tell, would I have to keep living?" Crowley inquired, his tone sceptical.

The hunter shrugged, "I dunno, you got hellhounds don't ya? Or pick somethin' ya like and make a point of doin' it weekly, somethin' to look forward to, ya know," Crowley raised an eyebrow unconvinced, and Bobby rolled his eyes in return. "Well, I know you like scotch…guess I could do with a drinking buddy, I'll even let you bitch about your week…" he offered offhandedly, not looking at the demon, instead burying his face in his mug and taking a long drink.

A slight curve ticked up the corner of Crowley's mouth. Robert Singer; notorious hunter, offering to be Crowley's drinking partner? He'd always had a soft spot for the human, and it seemed like maybe the feeling was mutual. What an interesting turn of events.

"Mmm, hard to turn down such a tempting offer," Crowley pretended to mull it over, meanwhile he heard the hunter grumbling into his mug but was unable to make out the words. He felt that warm feeling again and announced, "It's a deal…wanna seal it with a kiss?" he was mostly joking about the second part, sort of. But then Bobby shrugged, and Crowley couldn't contain his surprised expression.

"What? I have needs, and you proved last night that you can be drunk off yer tits and still kiss better than most," Bobby's cheeks had tinted a rosy pink as he spoke, and his gaze was anywhere but on Crowley, his free hand played with a bit of frayed material on his chair.

Crowley had almost forgotten that he'd kissed the hunter the previous night. There had been no regrets about that on his end, and it seemed as though Bobby found the demon to be better company than he'd let on.

"Why Robert, are you proposing that we get drunk and make out like a couple of teenagers every week?" he couldn't keep the smirk out of his voice.

"Got a better offer?" came the gruff response as he drained his mug and then rose from his chair.

"You know, I can't think of a single thing I'd rather do," Crowley grinned. He stood, moving to follow the hunter from the living room to the kitchen, where Bobby poured himself another mug full of coffee.

"Mmm, well then…"

Bobby leaned against the bench top and sipped his coffee. Crowley sat his mug on the sink, and then stepped into the hunter's space. Bobby withdrew the mug from his mouth, clearly about to ask the demon what he was doing, but then Crowley's lips were on his, and they were kissing eagerly in the middle of Bobby's kitchen.

Crowley withdrew eventually and Bobby's eyes were wide as he looked at the demon. He chuckled, "Sorry, were we only doing that whilst drunk?"

Bobby kept staring for long seconds and Crowley had begun to think that he'd made a mistake, when finally Bobby sighed, "Argh, fuck it."

The hunter sat his coffee mug down on the bench, then pulled Crowley back into him with a hand around his waist, and locked their lips again. Crowley's hands found solid bench to steady himself as his tongue slipped into Bobby's mouth, tasting him thoroughly. The moan that escaped the hunter's throat was the best sound that Crowley had heard in a long, long time.

Maybe not everything was shite after all.