[Oh, this is going to be good, he can already tell. Crowley doesn't answer that. He's tagging alon on a supposed case while Sam is out of town doing another one but he's starting to think that Dean just wants some space from his pet moose. Can't blame him. ]
[ Maybe he does. Maybe they both do. They're around each other 24/7, breathing down each others necks - in the car together, eating together, working together, sleeping together--
Not like that.
Anyway. It's exhausting, anyone would get sick of the other person after years of that. Yeah, they're codependent, but even codependent people need a little breathing room.
Sam's off hunting a rugaru somewhere in New Mexico, Dean thinks he's found a Wendigo somewhere out in Appalachia. He's not entirely sure where he is right now; Appalachia is a big area, spanning West Virginia all the way down into Alabama. He thinks maybe they're somewhere in Eastern Tennessee, closer to the Kentucky border - or in Kentucky, hell if he knows. His head hurts too badly to think, though the coffee is slowly bringing him back to life.
Working with Crowley is almost always a bad idea - it usually gets Dean either beat up or in serious trouble. The demons 'help' attracts drama, but for the most part, when Crowley decides not to be a flappy douchebag, he's usually pretty helpful. ]
[Crowley leans back and sips his coffee before making a face. God.. disgusting. Americans and their burnt tar, he'll never understand it.
Rosie's is, however, conveniently across the street and he'll watch from the window until he sees Dean before sauntering over with a thin smile and his hands in his pockets.]
He'll be there exactly twenty minutes later, because that's what he said. He's a little pale, dark circles under his eyes but honestly -- when doesn't he look rode hard and put up wet?
He orders another coffee from the waitress as he settles to wait, flashing her a wink before dropping his eyes to the demon who has settled across from him.
"Oh- sorry, are we only doing misery today?" He asks and slides into the booth across from Dean. He mimes his fingers pulling his mouth into a frown. Sad face it is.
Nah, he can't be bothered.
"Espresso, please love. Anything but that dishwater Americans call filter coffee." he says to the waitress who tries to smile through it because she needs this job and says she'll see what she can do. He wasn't expressly rude to her so she isn't mad but she has no idea how she's going to try to make espresso happen.
Lighten up, Dean, have a little fun. Don't go all Sam on him.
Crowley nods like he cares and he's invested (sort of is, that's why he's here after all) and leans back against the booth a bit. Nice to have a spread out.
"Sounds fairly small fry. Those things give a royal- and I mean royal stink. It's disgusting.
“Last time we hunted one, the thing had been taking them alive. Stowing them for later. You know how they are. But the woods are big, and they’re hard to track. Don’t suppose you’ve got a hellhound that’s eager to do some sniffing?”
"Suddenly it all becomes clear," he says as their drinks are delivered. He squints at the cup laid down before him. There's very little liquid in it and it looks very thick. Hm.
"You, Dean Winchester," picking up his suspicious mug and sloshing it around in a circle. No. He does not like the syrupy coating it's leaving one bit.
Crowley snorts and looks for a moment like he might pour his cup out all over the table. He is, fact, testing to see if it is so thick that it would stay in the cup.
The answer to its viscosity is answered when he does very nearly spill a drop and he sets it back down.
"It's like observing a monkey in its natural habitat. Filthy but captivating all the same. So you are in luck," the demons says, ignoring the eyeroll he is sure that has generated a d forging ahead. Because he is giving Dean what he wants, after all.
"My boy is better for fighting but my girl.. now she loves a good game of chase."
Fuck you, Crowley. It isn’t funny. You know why he doesn’t like hell hounds especially. He’s tense and rigid, leaning back when the waitress drops his pancakes off.
“After breakfast. Can you make it go away for now. Please.”
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Not like that.
Anyway. It's exhausting, anyone would get sick of the other person after years of that. Yeah, they're codependent, but even codependent people need a little breathing room.
Sam's off hunting a rugaru somewhere in New Mexico, Dean thinks he's found a Wendigo somewhere out in Appalachia. He's not entirely sure where he is right now; Appalachia is a big area, spanning West Virginia all the way down into Alabama. He thinks maybe they're somewhere in Eastern Tennessee, closer to the Kentucky border - or in Kentucky, hell if he knows. His head hurts too badly to think, though the coffee is slowly bringing him back to life.
Working with Crowley is almost always a bad idea - it usually gets Dean either beat up or in serious trouble. The demons 'help' attracts drama, but for the most part, when Crowley decides not to be a flappy douchebag, he's usually pretty helpful. ]
where are you, anyway? off betraying me?
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But no, not in these woods. I have some standards in who I'll deal with.
Are we working today? I can put my plans on hold.
[Said like he isn't sitting in a coffee shop with fuck all else to do.]
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[ A little coffee, some aspirin, - he'll be fine. ]
meet me at that diner in twenty. rosie's.
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[Crowley leans back and sips his coffee before making a face. God.. disgusting. Americans and their burnt tar, he'll never understand it.
Rosie's is, however, conveniently across the street and he'll watch from the window until he sees Dean before sauntering over with a thin smile and his hands in his pockets.]
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He orders another coffee from the waitress as he settles to wait, flashing her a wink before dropping his eyes to the demon who has settled across from him.
"You look chipper."
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Nah, he can't be bothered.
"Espresso, please love. Anything but that dishwater Americans call filter coffee." he says to the waitress who tries to smile through it because she needs this job and says she'll see what she can do. He wasn't expressly rude to her so she isn't mad but she has no idea how she's going to try to make espresso happen.
"Besides," back to Dean.
"I've had quite a pleasant twenty four hours."
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Espresso, you bougie ass bitch. What a pain in the ass.
"Yeah, as you keep saying. Meanwhile, I'm trying to focus on the case. So can we?" He gestures at the file in front of him.
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And.. on the coffee front, he kinda just wants to see what she'll do. So he can wait.
"Right, so. Remind me. What are we looking for again? A Winnebago?"
.. smile?
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“A wendigo. You’ve heard of them. We got three missing campers, all the regular signs.”
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Crowley nods like he cares and he's invested (sort of is, that's why he's here after all) and leans back against the booth a bit. Nice to have a spread out.
"Sounds fairly small fry. Those things give a royal- and I mean royal stink. It's disgusting.
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Like, they’re fucking gross. Gross.
“Last time we hunted one, the thing had been taking them alive. Stowing them for later. You know how they are. But the woods are big, and they’re hard to track. Don’t suppose you’ve got a hellhound that’s eager to do some sniffing?”
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“No. We’re supposed to be helping people and saving lives, and that means utilizing what tools we have.”
Crowley gets a meaningful look.
“Like a hellhound.”
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"You, Dean Winchester," picking up his suspicious mug and sloshing it around in a circle. No. He does not like the syrupy coating it's leaving one bit.
"-just want me for my bitch."
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Dean is smirking at that coffee. That’s what you get for asking for fancy shit at a diner.
“Well, yeah.”
Duh.
“Why else are you here? It isn’t for fun.”
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The answer to its viscosity is answered when he does very nearly spill a drop and he sets it back down.
"It's like observing a monkey in its natural habitat. Filthy but captivating all the same. So you are in luck," the demons says, ignoring the eyeroll he is sure that has generated a d forging ahead. Because he is giving Dean what he wants, after all.
"My boy is better for fighting but my girl.. now she loves a good game of chase."
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Yeah, Dean is gearing up to snap about that comment, but before he can, he’s hesitating and wavering.
“How many do you have
The answer is answered how poetic, Andi
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"You say that like she hasn't been sitting at my feet this whole time." He gestures to the floor at the side of the booth
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Dean. Dean hates puppies.
He visibly stiffens at the news, pulling back, away from… wherever the damned thing (literally) may be sitting.
“Okay so can we use it or not.”
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"You lead, we'll follow."
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Fuck you, Crowley. It isn’t funny. You know why he doesn’t like hell hounds especially. He’s tense and rigid, leaning back when the waitress drops his pancakes off.
“After breakfast. Can you make it go away for now. Please.”
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In actual fact his dog was never there (can you imagine having a hellhound in a diner like that, how irresponsible) but Dean doesn't need to know.
"No sooner said than done."
He has his own breakfast to contend with. Far less suspect than his coffee.
"Though I'm surprised you'd ask at all given your love of them."
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going w/what i know bc im too tired to look up camping in national parks
dw is a piece of shit
let me have my drowley godammit
Sob
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