In Which Insurance Agents are Demons

[safetyoffthegun]

Eliot was leaning back against the kitchen counter, laughing with an arched brow as he eyed Bobby, tipping the beer in his hand back to meet his lips, and drinking heavily from the amber-gold liquid.  They'd become fast friends after stumbling across each other in the middle of a job.  Turns out the bad guys that Nate and the rest of their crew had

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[safetyoffthegun]

Eliot glared at the demon he was facing off against, beer bottle set down on the counter with a little bit too much force. That assessment of Eliot's way with words wasn't untrue. In his defense, he was more likely to punch Sterling in the mouth rather than trip over failed retorts like a certain Winchester. His eyes flicker to the envelope he sets on the table, trying to work out the Insurance Agent's connection to Bobby Singer and coming up dry.

"Yeah, something like that. That job in Paris."

Or, more accurately, the hotel room after that job in Paris. Details. His arms crossing over his chest after dragging fingers through the few strands of hair that hang loose around his face. He's still debating hitting him, just on principle. Just because there's always something satisfying about the feeling of Sterling's skin and bones under his knuckles.

Of course, it's not there haven't been occasions when that has spiraled into something different than what it starts out as.

"How do you know Bobby, Sterling?"

That name coming sharp and aggravated off his tongue. Not that Eliot has anything other than a violent temper, and Sterling has always been excellent at getting him riled.

Bobby, for his part, had just assumed that Crowley had given Eliot a fake name. Demon. It wasn't like being truthful was in his nature in any way or shape. And he'd been far more concerned with not having to bear witness to whatever was about to go down than correcting fake names.