Amber wanted it, she gave me a prompt and I kind of failed it. I’ve never written these two before. I don’t know where any of this came form and/or is going. A follow up to this, but can be read on its own.

When dinner is over and everyone is done catching up, Gabriel takes Shiloh to bed, Sam following soon after. Dean tucks in Lucas and then he and Castiel pass out together on the couch. Bobby is reading silently at his desk when Crowley walks in, pretentious walk in place and a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Thought you only drank Craig,” Bobby mutters, putting a bad, British twist on the name.

Crowley rolls his eyes dramatically and places the glass down in front of a stack of books Bobby has already looked through. “For you, love,” he drawls. Bobby is taken aback momentarily, but reaches for the cup anyway. He takes a cautious sip of the whiskey. Crowley scoffs. “Didn’t poison it,” he says.

Bobby looks up at him under the brim of his hat, “I can never be too sure with you.”

“After all we’ve been through together, Robert,” Crowley laments, perching himself on the desk, on foot resting on the seat of Bobby’s chair, “And you still don’t trust me?”

Bobby raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t given me much reason, now have you?”

Crowley shrugs and scoots further back on the desk. He pushes at Bobby’s chair with his heel, turning the man towards him. He places both his feet in Bobby’s lap, one leg draped over the other. He clacks the over-shined toes of his shoes together. Bobby rolls his eyes at the invasion, but leans over his desk again, one arm resting on Crowley’s shin.

“Why’d you end up comin’?” Bobby says after a while, not looking up from his book, “Thought holidays weren’t your thing?”

“A little birdie told me you wanted me around.”

“Little birdie?”

Crowley rolls his shoulders, smirking at Bobby, “Angel, bird,” he says, “No big difference. Anyway, seems you were right upset when I said I wouldn’t be around. Bird told me you were pining for me. And who was I to leave you in such a state?”

Bobby pushes Crowley’s feet out of his lap. “I wasn’t pinin’ over anyone,” he protests, scooting his chair forward so the demon can’t worm his way back in. Crowley laughs and stands. He walks behind the chair, shoes tapping against the hardwood floor, and leans over Bobby from behind.

“Then I guess it won’t matter to you if I tell you I’ve got to run, will it?” He taps the top of Bobby’s head. The man rolls his eyes, muttering ‘not one bit’ under his breath. Crowley nods, smirk still in place and moves beside Bobby. He leans his hip on the arm of his chair, hand on Bobby’s head falling down to his neck. Bobby looks up at him.

Crowley winks and tugs off his rotted old hat with his free hand, and uses the hand still on his neck to pull his head forward. Crowley presses a kiss to Bobby’s forehead, feeling the man’s skin flush with warmth. He puts the hat back on his head sloppily, winks again, and is gone.

Bobby grumbles something about ‘stupid fucking demons’ and goes back to his book, hat hanging sideways off his head loosely.

You can decide for yourself if it was Gabriel or Castiel who told Crowley to come. I personally like to think it was Cas, but it can go either way.

After the events with Eve, Bobby gets a visitor.

Dean and Sam are on a food run when it happens.  Bobby is leaned over a trunk of old knives, trying to sort out which ones are too rusted to be useful anymore, when he hears someone whistle behind him. Bobby knows who it is immediately, grabbing one of the better knives and holding it in front of him as he turns around.

Crowley stands a foot away from him, a can of beer (no doubt plucked from Bobby’s own fridge) in his hand. He takes a sip, smirking. The smarmy expression falls when he swallows, lips dropping into a frown as he makes a face at the cheap drink. “That’s disgusting,” he says.

“So Eve was tellin’ the truth?” Bobby says slowly, staring the demon down, “You’re alive.”

“Obviously,” Crowley looks down the beer can, eyebrows raised defiantly.

“How?”

Crowley shrugs, resting his drink on a shelf nearby. “A magician never reveals his tricks, Robert.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Bobby’s frown deepens. He lowers the knife a fraction. “How do I know it’s really you and not another trick?”

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