you spent the evening unpacking books from boxes / you passed me up so as not to break a promise

[nastypieceowork]

The library is seeing rather a busy day. People coming and going, up to and into all manner of things.

Take, for instance, John Constantine. He's on the second level, books spread out all over a table he's commandeered for himself. (Though he wouldn't complain if attractive company wanted a seat.) He's heavy into some research, poring over

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[loldemons]

Crowley can't exactly thrilled about being here. For one, he can't explain how he arrived in this dreadful hole of a place. He's able to gather it's some form of alternative dimension or something of the like. Because really. He doesn't dream and this certainly isn't the afterlife.

The demon has been idly strolling around for awhile, a completely disinterested expression tinted with irritation. Just his luck. One moment he's dealing with a witless princess and her pet moose and the ever-loving whining in Hell, the next he's in some bland, uninteresting location with a incredibly embarrassing name.

Crowley suddenly stops. The tedious line his lips were forming now curl up into a charming (lol) smile. Well! If his day didn't just get brighter.

"Fancy seeing you here!" Sup Cas. Trollfais.

[itookabus]

Castiel's gaze refocuses at once on Crowley. There's a slight twitch of an eyebrow, a near-imperceptible pinch of the angel's features that might suggest annoyance.

"Is this your doing?" he demands, gravelly-voiced and unblinking as always. He's reasonably certain it isn't, unless Crowley's somehow become immensely powerful when he wasn't looking. But he's got no other real explanation so he might as well start with the most likely guilty party he's seen all day.

[loldemons]

Crowley makes note of the subtle change in Castiel's features. He expected nothing less but still, it's always pleasant to know he's irritating somebody. Especially an angel! Granted, he shouldn't be so chipper about the idea given he is an angel but whatever. Really. In the long run, anyone who trots behind the Winchesters like a lost puppy is hardly intimidating.

"Entirely," he dryly replies, complete with an obligatory eye-roll. "Really," he continues, tugging out a sole wrinkle on his jacket cuff, "The lot of your kind are much better at this sort of thing. At least, up here."

[itookabus]

"This is not my doing."

He can't explain it--and he doesn't like that, he finds.

That emotional attachment is odd but perhaps a bit forgivable considering the circumstances.

"How long have you been here?" And what have you been up to is sort of the implied follow-up to that.