Disclaimer: The Winchesters, the angels, the demon - none belong to me. The homophobes, the vampires and the wendigos do. I kinda like the latter, but the other two can burn in hell.

Note: I'm sorry if I screw up any of the Americanisms - I'm British, and while I've tried to stick to the speech patterns and colloquialisms indigenous to the various states of the USA, I'm aware I've probably gone wrong in a few places. Let's just call it artistic license yeah?

WARNING: Slash, mentions of light gore and sex (not at the same time and not explicit). Don't like it? Go away. Simple.

It wasn't like he hunted solo much anymore. Hell, in another life he'd have retired from his 9 to 5 job by now and would be watching his grandkids play or some shit like that. Instead he was playing pseudo-daddy to a pair of 30 year old idjits, his job involved large amounts of pain and danger, his leg was playing up from that time it got chomped on by a Wendigo a good 20 years ago, and to top it all off he had somehow become consort to the King of Hell.

Despite all that he couldn't find much to complain about now-a-days (that was a lie, and he knew it, sometimes he continued to complain out of sheer spite) – bizarrely enough Crowley was pleasant to have around, and once they'd got past all the learning how to live with each other crap, Bobby's ol' sorry looking house had suddenly become a real home.

Of course the place was still littered with books and papers and scraps of newspaper, but it was clean. No dust clung to the surfaces, any and all vermin had fled like the plague was upon them (and who knows, maybe it was), the kitchen gleamed, exotic knickknacks were dotted around the house and it smelled, of all things, like roses.

As it turned out, Bobby was in fact capable of co-inhabiting. It was as surprising to him as much as anyone else. He was a difficult man to live with and he knew it. Fortunately Crowley seemed to find the challenge exciting, and more than one argument had descended into gleefully wild sex upon any available surface. Bobby hadn't thought he was capable of doing that sort of thing anymore, but it seemed as if there were some of the randy 20 year old of eons ago left in him after all. In fact, if he didn't know better, he'd half suspect that that crafty ol' demon of his was fiddling with his lifespan. Sometimes he looked in the mirror and felt like he'd stepped back in time.

The fact of the matter was that despite verbally hanging up his hunting hat a good 10 years ago, he'd kept on hunting – usually with one or more of the Winchesters yanking him along. Hell they'd even dragged him into an apocalypse or two. He'd come out of it scratched and beaten, and at some point half paralysed, but alive none the less, so of course it would be the one time he goes on a simple solo hunt after a Wendigo that he nearly dies.

He shouldn't have gone really. Crowley was away in Hell (something about overseeing a new sector reserved mostly for violent homophobes and child-molesting priests), the Winchester boys were over in Ohio probably with two angels of the Lord dogging their heels, and everyone else he could or would have gone with were either dead, damned or doing their own thing.

This was all passing through his mind at that very moment. He certainly had plenty of time to think about it anyhow. Turned out there were two Wendigos, not one, and the second had gotten the jump on him despite his successful slaughter of the first. So here Bobby was, hanging upside down like a freakin' fruit bat, and waiting for a grisly demise while absently wondering if he'd turned the cooker off before he'd left that morning. It was probably somewhat telling that even in a potentially fatal situation he was worrying about Crowley getting pissed at his general laziness towards the kitchen. Obviously mortal peril lost some of its buzz after the millionth time of experiencing it.

Bored, he began to count the number of drips of blood coming off his body.

A good thousand or so drops of blood later there was a growl at the cave entrance, and soon the odd wolf-like creature shuffled in. Bobby rolled his eyes as it poked at him curiously with razor sharp claws, carelessly piercing his flesh as if testing if its lunch was still alive. The old hunter couldn't withhold a wince as it nicked against his broken collarbone. With a satisfied 'wuffle' the Wendigo knelt and eagerly licked up the pool of blood gathered on the floor. Apparently it believed in having an appetiser.

At one time Bobby might have felt a bit nauseated at the sight. Now he just felt somewhat indignant,

'Hey, that's mine you ugly bastard.'

Its ears twitched, but it continued to lick the stone floor clean. Nose twitching, it eventually raised its head, long tongue wiping over vicious teeth with obvious pleasure. The blood was gone. It wanted more. Insane golden-green eyes stared into calm blue as if waiting for its victim to scream and struggle. Bobby did neither. He quirked an eyebrow at the creature,

'What? You want a gilded invitation or somethin'? Go fuck yourself you scraggly sack of shit.'

Long ears twitched at his pissed off drawl, and a clawed hand reached up, settling gently at his stomach, and then a long talon began to pierce the hunter's still-solid flesh. There was something sadistic in the way it slowly dug into him, staring into his eyes as if seeking a reaction. Bobby stared back, easily pushing back the pain, and frowned, voice monotone,

'Ow.'

Bobby must have blinked, because one second the Wendigo was there, and the next it was gone. There was a crunch as bone shattered against a solid wall, and the Wendigo shrieked as it slumped to the floor. Immediately it was set upon by some invisible force, and Bobby waited patiently as the click of well-shod shoes against stone drew nearer,

'Hello luv, bit a pickle you've gotten yourself into.'

There was Crowley in all his tailored glory, looking as if he'd just stepped out from the office... and that's probably exactly where the smarmy bastard had come from too. Damned if the demon didn't look freakin' sexy even upside down. Bobby grunted in greeting as his bindings were cut through with a wicked looking blade,

'How was hell?'

'Hellish.'

Unnaturally strong arms caught him as he fell, setting him to rights with gentle hands. In the corner the Wendigo's shrieks grew quieter, going ignored by the two men. A careful hand pressed against the gaping wound on the hunter's stomach. Scarily enough, that sorta thing made Bobby appreciate his man all the more – there weren't many who'd hold his guts in for him, and fewer still who'd do it so casually.

'How much blood have you lost?'

'Lost count at 1382 drops.'

Crowley helped the hunter to his feet, eying the torn and bloodied flesh of his lover's torso with quiet concern,

'You hunters are a strange breed.'

'Don't I know it. Gotta be insane to keep doing this job after 30 years of it. Probably ain't right that mortal peril seems kinda boring by now.'

'Hence why you were having a lovely chat with the dear departed Wendigo?'

Said Wendigo was little more than a grisly stain and some torn fur by now. Well, the hellhounds would be well fed today at least.

'Seemed better than makin' a fuss.'

'Sometimes I find myself wondering if you're entirely sane luv.'

'Glad I ain't the only one.'

Painfully he let the demon half support him out into the sunlight. They paused for a moment until, at a whistle from their master, the invisible hellhounds snuffled beside them, pressing into their legs on either side.

'Hold on darlin''

Bobby shut his eyes, knowing from experience that he'd puke if not, and waited for his feet to re-alight upon solid ground. It only took a second, but it was still disorientating.

'Alright luv?'

'Alive.'

Carefully he was eased down onto the couch, and sighed in relief as the cushions took the weight off of his aching body. Truthfully he felt like shit, and he had a headache from hanging upside down for so long. He blinked wearily down at his demon as the boots were tugged from his feet. The warm, if invisible, form of a hellhound curled up at his hip and he absently petted it as Crowley examined the various wounds on his body.

'You do realise I'm going to be bloody furious once my relief wears out.'

'Yeah, I know. At least I left a note this time.'

Crowley snorted, preparing to stitch the gaping hole in his lover's stomach using supplies from the med kit kept on a nearby bookcase,

'Oh yes, because knowing where to find your mutilated carcass is so much better than not at all. Fucking freaks me out when I come home early to an empty house – I never know if I'm back in time to save your ass... when it needs saving that is.'

'S'what the seal is for right? Freakin' demonic seal. The boys would go batshit if they knew.'

'All the more reason for them not to find out.'

'Never know, they might like the idea that you can find me no matter where I am on the globe.'

'Yeah, and I'm the Queen of fucking Sheeba.'

'That a new name for Hell or somethin'? Sheeba. Sounds a bit odd, but at least the Queen part is right.'

'Piss off.'

The demon was half smiling when he said it, so Bobby closed his eyes, assured for the moment that he wouldn't be getting bitch slapped. Again.

'I'll make it up to you.'

'You'd better. I'm half tempted to assign you a bloody hellhound bodyguard at this point.'

Bobby shrugged,

'If it makes you happy.'

Dark eyes looked up at him searchingly,

'I'm going to hold you to that luv.'

Bobby tugged the demon up, and planted a kiss on his lips,

'It's a deal.'

Crowley grinned and kissed him properly before pulling away,

'Deal. I'm gonna phone Cas, see if he minds popping over and healing you some. Broken collarbones are the worst...'

The demon's voice trailed off as he disappeared into the kitchen muttering about the utter ludicrousness of the King of Hell having an angel on speed dial. Bobby smiled briefly and settled onto the sofa better, sighing peacefully at the scent of roses and the persistent heat of a hellhound resting it's head on his thigh. Funny how such a bizarre life could feel so much like normalcy. Slowly he dozed off, remaining coherent just long enough to wonder if he had turned off the oven that morning, and then the oblivion of sleep overcame him.

R&R if you want. Let me know if you think it's worth me doing the Xmas sequel or accompanying three-shot as mentioned at the bottom of Chapter 1.