Just a Dabble
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Bobby, Crowley
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: What if things weren't as they appear ... spoilers for Weekend at Bobby's.
Notes: I've ended up writing a series of dabbles that may or may not be related. This is my take on what we found out about Crowley in the episode Weekend at Bobby's. Enjoy!
Bobby Singer woke up slowly. His mouth was all cottony and dry, his eyes pretty much gummed shut. There was nothing new about that feeling; he'd woken up to it more then he cared to admit over the years. The realization that he wasn't alone in his bed, on the other hand ...
He turned his head to look at the other side of the bed. The normally empty side of the bed. Which wasn't empty at the moment. Crowley, the former King of the Crossroads and the current King of Hell, was curled up there, fast asleep. Bobby blinked and rubbed his eyes. Yep, the demon was still there, curled up on his side, one hand tucked under his head, the other curled around his body. He was still dressed in his shirt and trousers, but he was sleeping. And deeply, as Bobby found out when he eased his way up. Glancing down at himself, he was relieved to see that he was still dressed as well, except for his boots and hat.
Bobby eyed the demon for a long moment. He almost looked peaceful sleeping there, but that didn't stop the hunter from planting a foot against him and shoving him off the bed. He grinned at the crash the demon made as he connected with the floor, and swung his legs off the bed, reaching for his boots.
"What the ..." Bobby looked over his shoulder, grinning at the sight of a rumbled Demon King blinking back at him. "What was that for?"
Bobby paused, glaring at him. "Be glad you didn't end up with an ass full of rock salt," he growled.
Crowley humphed. "That's gratitude for you," he grumbled as he pushed himself up to sit on the bed.
"Grati ... what?" Bobby glared at him, and Crowley looked at him in surprise, then the demon's eyes narrowed.
"You don't remember?"
Bobby blinking, wondering at the look that had crossed Crowley's face. It had looked suspiciously like relief. Frowning, he thought back on the night before.
He'd gotten drunk. Not that that was a new thing. What had been new was Crowley showing up while he was still on his third glass. They'd stared at each other for a long moment before Crowley snapped a bottle and glass into existence, and joined him. Bobby had blinked at that, wondering if he should grab the shotgun hidden in the couch cushions, but Crowley had just settled into the nearby chair and stretched out his legs, filling up the glass.
Last night had been the anniversary of Karen's death, and Bobby had needed to get drunk in a mad attempt to forget. Not that it ever worked. Eventually he'd started talking. About Karen, about their lives. About their hopes and wishes and shattered dreams. Crowley had listened, matching him drink for drink. He was surprised to see a look of melancholy cross the demon's face more than once, making him wonder at his past. Then he'd remember who he was drinking with, and he'd sneer before returning to his drink.
Crowley had just kept drinking, listening as Bobby rambled on. Then, after the seventh... or maybe it was the eleventh?... time Bobby had jeeringly called him Fergy...
Bobby's eyes snapped to Crowley and he scowled darkly. Crowley's face fell and he sighed. "Damn. You remember."
Bobby didn't answer, just slipped his feet into his boots, stomping a few times for a better fit, and got up, walking downstairs and into the kitchen.
***************************
Crowley watched him go with some dismay. Damn! He hadn't meant for that to happen. He didn't mind Bobby knowing, but the hunter would pass the information to the Winchesters, and he really preferred they didn't know. Oh well ...
The demon looked down at his rumpled clothes and sighed. With a twitch of his hand, he was dressed in a different suit, the newest from his new tailor. He took a moment to preen, eying himself in the dresser mirror. Damn! He looked good! Now to go do some damage control.
He followed the clatter of pots and pans to the kitchen and leaned against the door-frame, watching as Bobby worked. From the slamming the man was doing, it was easy to summarize the hunter was angry.
"What's the big deal? You got your soul back." Pushing himself away from the door, Crowley started into the room, then paused at the look Bobby gave him. His eyes scanned the room, trying to work out where the bottles of holy water and guns loaded with rock salt were concealed. He'd gained a healthy respect for the man's ingenuity.
Bobby glowered at him. "The problem is... the problem is that if you're not Fergus McCloud, like you claim now, you didn't have to give my soul back." Bobby eyed him as if wondering if he'd been lying the night before.
Crowley was tempted to claim just that, but he discarded the idea with a sigh. "It was in my best interest to lie about who I was."
"So Fergus was a real person? He did sell his soul for a bigger dick?" Bobby's eyes narrowed at Crowley's smirk. "You! You were the demon who made the deal!"
"He was an odious little thing." Crowley grinned. "In more ways than one. Trust me. Those three inches did not help."
"But his son. He thought..." Bobby paused, thinking it over before sighing. "He thought what I told him. He wouldn't have been able to recognize the meatsuit." He eyed Crowley. "You just played along."
Crowley shrugged. "Fergus was a whiner. He bitched about his wife, his kids, his work, everything …"
"Fuck!" Bobby growled suddenly. "He was your tailor!"
Crowley laughed. "Very good. Yes, he was." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he strolled forward, looking at what the hunter was working on. Waffles from the look of it. "A good one too. For the time."
"So threatening the bones didn't do any good. So why did you give me back my soul?"
Crowley turned the question over in his head. With an abrupt wave of his hand, maple syrup, strawberries and whipped cream appeared on another counter. "I didn't need it, so why not?" He slipped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, reaching for a knife with one hand and the strawberries with the other.
Bobby frowned and Crowley's hands stilled.
"Would you prefer I left?"
Bobby hadn't intended for Crowley to stay for breakfast, but then he glanced at the batter he was making up and scowled, realizing he was mixing more than enough for two. And, as much as he hated to admit it, he could use the company.
"It's okay," he muttered. "So why not just give it back when I asked for it?"
"What fun would that have been?" Crowley chuckled at the sour look that crossed the other's face. "Besides. Demon here. Just giving back a soul would have ruined my reputation. Can't have that. Anyway, you had ten years to find an out."
Bobby blinked, surprised. "So who the hell are you?"
Crowley went still, staring at the chopped strawberries. After a moment he scooped them up and dropped them into a bowl. "Someone best left dead," he said quietly. "Don't bother looking for my bones. You won't find them."
Bobby grunted, wondering what Crowley had sold his soul for. "What happened to the real Fergus?"
"Aaah, well. He tried to cheat his way out of the deal." Crowley wiped his hands, frowning. "I don't suppose it would do any good to ask you not to tell the Hardy Boys about this?"
Bobby arched an eyebrow at him. "Any reason I shouldn't?"
Crowley hesitated, then shrugged. "Never mind. Plates?"
Bobby pointed him toward the right cupboard, then turned back to the waffles.
They ate breakfast and talked about inconsequential things, and after Crowley left, Bobby found himself not telling the boys the truth about the demon. After all he didn't know who he really was, so why bother?
And he never did find out why Crowley stopped by in the first place.
Characters/Pairings: Bobby, Crowley
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: What if things weren't as they appear ... spoilers for Weekend at Bobby's.
Notes: I've ended up writing a series of dabbles that may or may not be related. This is my take on what we found out about Crowley in the episode Weekend at Bobby's. Enjoy!
Bobby Singer woke up slowly. His mouth was all cottony and dry, his eyes pretty much gummed shut. There was nothing new about that feeling; he'd woken up to it more then he cared to admit over the years. The realization that he wasn't alone in his bed, on the other hand ...
He turned his head to look at the other side of the bed. The normally empty side of the bed. Which wasn't empty at the moment. Crowley, the former King of the Crossroads and the current King of Hell, was curled up there, fast asleep. Bobby blinked and rubbed his eyes. Yep, the demon was still there, curled up on his side, one hand tucked under his head, the other curled around his body. He was still dressed in his shirt and trousers, but he was sleeping. And deeply, as Bobby found out when he eased his way up. Glancing down at himself, he was relieved to see that he was still dressed as well, except for his boots and hat.
Bobby eyed the demon for a long moment. He almost looked peaceful sleeping there, but that didn't stop the hunter from planting a foot against him and shoving him off the bed. He grinned at the crash the demon made as he connected with the floor, and swung his legs off the bed, reaching for his boots.
"What the ..." Bobby looked over his shoulder, grinning at the sight of a rumbled Demon King blinking back at him. "What was that for?"
Bobby paused, glaring at him. "Be glad you didn't end up with an ass full of rock salt," he growled.
Crowley humphed. "That's gratitude for you," he grumbled as he pushed himself up to sit on the bed.
"Grati ... what?" Bobby glared at him, and Crowley looked at him in surprise, then the demon's eyes narrowed.
"You don't remember?"
Bobby blinking, wondering at the look that had crossed Crowley's face. It had looked suspiciously like relief. Frowning, he thought back on the night before.
He'd gotten drunk. Not that that was a new thing. What had been new was Crowley showing up while he was still on his third glass. They'd stared at each other for a long moment before Crowley snapped a bottle and glass into existence, and joined him. Bobby had blinked at that, wondering if he should grab the shotgun hidden in the couch cushions, but Crowley had just settled into the nearby chair and stretched out his legs, filling up the glass.
Last night had been the anniversary of Karen's death, and Bobby had needed to get drunk in a mad attempt to forget. Not that it ever worked. Eventually he'd started talking. About Karen, about their lives. About their hopes and wishes and shattered dreams. Crowley had listened, matching him drink for drink. He was surprised to see a look of melancholy cross the demon's face more than once, making him wonder at his past. Then he'd remember who he was drinking with, and he'd sneer before returning to his drink.
Crowley had just kept drinking, listening as Bobby rambled on. Then, after the seventh... or maybe it was the eleventh?... time Bobby had jeeringly called him Fergy...
Bobby's eyes snapped to Crowley and he scowled darkly. Crowley's face fell and he sighed. "Damn. You remember."
Bobby didn't answer, just slipped his feet into his boots, stomping a few times for a better fit, and got up, walking downstairs and into the kitchen.
***************************
Crowley watched him go with some dismay. Damn! He hadn't meant for that to happen. He didn't mind Bobby knowing, but the hunter would pass the information to the Winchesters, and he really preferred they didn't know. Oh well ...
The demon looked down at his rumpled clothes and sighed. With a twitch of his hand, he was dressed in a different suit, the newest from his new tailor. He took a moment to preen, eying himself in the dresser mirror. Damn! He looked good! Now to go do some damage control.
He followed the clatter of pots and pans to the kitchen and leaned against the door-frame, watching as Bobby worked. From the slamming the man was doing, it was easy to summarize the hunter was angry.
"What's the big deal? You got your soul back." Pushing himself away from the door, Crowley started into the room, then paused at the look Bobby gave him. His eyes scanned the room, trying to work out where the bottles of holy water and guns loaded with rock salt were concealed. He'd gained a healthy respect for the man's ingenuity.
Bobby glowered at him. "The problem is... the problem is that if you're not Fergus McCloud, like you claim now, you didn't have to give my soul back." Bobby eyed him as if wondering if he'd been lying the night before.
Crowley was tempted to claim just that, but he discarded the idea with a sigh. "It was in my best interest to lie about who I was."
"So Fergus was a real person? He did sell his soul for a bigger dick?" Bobby's eyes narrowed at Crowley's smirk. "You! You were the demon who made the deal!"
"He was an odious little thing." Crowley grinned. "In more ways than one. Trust me. Those three inches did not help."
"But his son. He thought..." Bobby paused, thinking it over before sighing. "He thought what I told him. He wouldn't have been able to recognize the meatsuit." He eyed Crowley. "You just played along."
Crowley shrugged. "Fergus was a whiner. He bitched about his wife, his kids, his work, everything …"
"Fuck!" Bobby growled suddenly. "He was your tailor!"
Crowley laughed. "Very good. Yes, he was." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he strolled forward, looking at what the hunter was working on. Waffles from the look of it. "A good one too. For the time."
"So threatening the bones didn't do any good. So why did you give me back my soul?"
Crowley turned the question over in his head. With an abrupt wave of his hand, maple syrup, strawberries and whipped cream appeared on another counter. "I didn't need it, so why not?" He slipped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, reaching for a knife with one hand and the strawberries with the other.
Bobby frowned and Crowley's hands stilled.
"Would you prefer I left?"
Bobby hadn't intended for Crowley to stay for breakfast, but then he glanced at the batter he was making up and scowled, realizing he was mixing more than enough for two. And, as much as he hated to admit it, he could use the company.
"It's okay," he muttered. "So why not just give it back when I asked for it?"
"What fun would that have been?" Crowley chuckled at the sour look that crossed the other's face. "Besides. Demon here. Just giving back a soul would have ruined my reputation. Can't have that. Anyway, you had ten years to find an out."
Bobby blinked, surprised. "So who the hell are you?"
Crowley went still, staring at the chopped strawberries. After a moment he scooped them up and dropped them into a bowl. "Someone best left dead," he said quietly. "Don't bother looking for my bones. You won't find them."
Bobby grunted, wondering what Crowley had sold his soul for. "What happened to the real Fergus?"
"Aaah, well. He tried to cheat his way out of the deal." Crowley wiped his hands, frowning. "I don't suppose it would do any good to ask you not to tell the Hardy Boys about this?"
Bobby arched an eyebrow at him. "Any reason I shouldn't?"
Crowley hesitated, then shrugged. "Never mind. Plates?"
Bobby pointed him toward the right cupboard, then turned back to the waffles.
They ate breakfast and talked about inconsequential things, and after Crowley left, Bobby found himself not telling the boys the truth about the demon. After all he didn't know who he really was, so why bother?
And he never did find out why Crowley stopped by in the first place.