Oh, you know, *Meg says, sweetly.* Ghosting around, wailing helplessly over my tragic state of undeath, seducing innocent young men from the path of righteousness, tout comme d'habitude - the usual.
There's someone watching them from a chair near the fire. A girl, perhaps in her late teens, with tangled dark hair and a loose yellow sundress, tucked into an armchair with her hands wrapped around a large mug of something.
Watching them, or watching the air in front of or behind them. It's hard to say exactly which.
Certainly not the Mexican woman (currently with a bruised lower lip, but she's ignoring it). Frying isn't on the agenda. Actually, nothing much IS, really.
Crowley's been at dinner. Well, sort of. With his usual impeccable timing, he'd shown up just as Bernard and 'Dora were about to sit down to the table, and so really he's not so much been at dinner as he has been sitting at the table, re-enacting some of the week's highlights for a giggling 'Dora as Bernard flaps around in the kitchen, putting together another portion.
But it's close enough to say: Crowley's been at dinner.
When he emerges from the staff wing, his shirtsleeves are rolled up, and his sunglasses are pushed back on his head.
" - your mum says to come sit to the table now, before your dad takes a sudden nap at the thought of re-heating one of his culinary oeuvres, and I - "
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HI, Sam Winchester.
Meg would like a word with you. A perfectly, friendly, harmless word. And her perfectly, friendly, harmless smile conveys this remarkably well.
"Hi, Sam."
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Sam smiles back at her, easy and carefree.
"How's it going?"
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Dean holds up both hands, smile just this side of fake.
Barely.
"You get up on the wrong side of the coffin today?"
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Watching them, or watching the air in front of or behind them. It's hard to say exactly which.
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Which is why he looks up, deliberately casual, and scans the area.
Huh.
That girl looks kinda--
He frowns.
"You got somethin' you're looking for, sweetheart?"
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She's silent for a few seconds, too long for normalcy.
Then, "Do you?"
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Sam doesn't say anything yet, just watches.
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...don't mind the mild oogling.
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"Hey, Dean."
Sam lifts his beer bottle, half-hiding his muttered words.
"There's a federal agent watching you."
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Dean lifts his own bottle, taking a swig.
"Thought there was no business here, Sammy-boy."
He might be glancing around to see who might want to fry his ass today, though.
Just a little.
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"Hey Sam," she calls out.
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Well, okay.
Eying Sam.
Dean is not deserving of eying. He is just cool.
Or Cool, even.
Sam gets Watched. Craftily. As she scribbles Cunning Plans on her paper.
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"Hey, Sunny. More coloring today?"
He nudges Sam's elbow and heads over to the kid.
What?
She clearly has taste.
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He gives Sunny a smile, but doesn't get too close. No sense in pissing off a little girl who doesn't like him anyway.
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Crowley's been at dinner. Well, sort of. With his usual impeccable timing, he'd shown up just as Bernard and 'Dora were about to sit down to the table, and so really he's not so much been at dinner as he has been sitting at the table, re-enacting some of the week's highlights for a giggling 'Dora as Bernard flaps around in the kitchen, putting together another portion.
But it's close enough to say: Crowley's been at dinner.
When he emerges from the staff wing, his shirtsleeves are rolled up, and his sunglasses are pushed back on his head.
" - your mum says to come sit to the table now, before your dad takes a sudden nap at the thought of re-heating one of his culinary oeuvres, and I - "
He slows, half-way across the bar.
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