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.”
"Well I find that very admirable of you. It's an excellent quality."
He also enjoys the fact they're having a leisurely breakfast before heading off. As if they have a life saving appointment at 11 and don't want to be early.
Dean walks such a deliciously grey line in his pursuit of good, it is fascinating.
Snort. That's one way to do it - a way Dean's done it himself over
the years.
"That's what I've always said. Course, doubt my heart thinks that," he
says, flashing a little smirk, because he knows how he eats, and he
knows a heart attack is coming for him at 70.
"Why wouldn't I? You work hard, we have common goals on occasion. And every world ending, time altering, apocalyptic hoohaw you've come up against.. you stop it. Every time. Who better deserves a golden sunset than you."
But -- Crowley's right, and Dean quietly thinks the same, though he'll never voice it out loud. Instead he shrugs one shoulder, stuffs a bite of pancake in his mouth.
It just...is what it is. It's how he was raised - Dean never even expected to make it this far, to be honest.
His lips quirk a little; every time he works with Crowley he gets the shit beat out of him in some capacity but he's gotta confess - he hasn't died yet, and Crowley has his uses.
"Guess I do." He clears his throat, then opens the file, showing it to Crowley.
"Okay. So -- This is Victoria Jones, last seen camping at Mt. Mitchell, in North Carolina two weeks ago. This," he flips the paper over, "is Matthew Donovan, last seen camping in the Pisgah National forest, North Carolina, three weeks ago. And this--" a final page flip, "is Juanita Ramirez, reported missing a week ago, went camping somewhere off the Blue Ridge parkway."
He moves the three pictures and their case files off to the side, then shows Crowley a map, the campgrounds where the first two hikers were spotted circled, but the third hiker is more of a problem.
"So we know about where these first two are, but we don't have much concrete information about Juanita. The parkway is 469 miles, and no one really knew where she planned to stop. There's a lot of places off the beaten path that she could've went - and what's more annoying?"
He sighs.
"She was a hiker - so her car is parked at the base camp, and has been for a month. So that doesn't give us much information about where she might've disappeared. That's where I think your, uh. Puppy will come in handy."
Crowley listens to the lesson, looking at the file he's put together. It's not as anal as the many he's seen by Sam's hand but it's informative and charming without the general stench of moose grease and disdain.
Finally, once Dean has spoken and there's been a beat to think. Another beat to pull over the photographs of the missing people. He decides Juanita has a pretty face and bouncy hair and it would be a waste of both for her to die.
And, as much as he hates to admit it, he wants the brownie points with Dean.
"This is impressive, I have to hand you that. You do actually know what you're doing half the time, don't you."
It's a backhanded compliment but a compliment all the same. It isn't in his nature of be candid unless he has to, but he also knows Dean can read between the lines because they have very similar armor and so it doesn't really matter anyway. Water off a duck's back to get to the real meaning.
"I can do this. Won't take a moment for my girl, we just need the missing's scent. We get to the car, we get the scent and it's straight on till morning."
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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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"It doesn't have anything to do with me."
He's gonna dig into his chocolate chip pancakes now, thanks very much.
"It's to help save people. So I'll do whatever needs to be done."
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A bite.
"Genuinely, though. It's flexible. That's what I like about it. You'll do anything. I admire that about you, kitten, I really do."
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All Dean wants to do is help people. It's all he knows how to do, all he was brought up to do.
"Anyway. I'm just saying, if there's a tool we can use to make it easier, save those campers, we should use it, regardless of if I like it."
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He also enjoys the fact they're having a leisurely breakfast before heading off. As if they have a life saving appointment at 11 and don't want to be early.
Dean walks such a deliciously grey line in his pursuit of good, it is fascinating.
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"You should eat."
He pauses, frowns.
"Do you need to eat?" He's used to barking at Sam to have something.
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Snort.
"Well. There you go. Have a pancake."
He offers his plate, cause he's a good guy like that.
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He accepts, cheerful and very chuffed. Crowley rolls it into a cigar to eat with his fingers. Fuck it.
"I love pancakes. You know, take it from someone who's been around the block, the meaning to life really is good food, good drink, and good company."
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Snort. That's one way to do it - a way Dean's done it himself over the years.
"That's what I've always said. Course, doubt my heart thinks that," he says, flashing a little smirk, because he knows how he eats, and he knows a heart attack is coming for him at 70.
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"No shit, but no one wants to die, either."
He'd like best of both worlds, but that ain't in his cards.
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He shrugs. Standard but boring.
"I think I'd quite fancy a blaze of glory. Maybe an orgy."
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With a dock to fish.
"That doesn't surprise me at all about you."
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A beat.
"I like that for you, though. The lake, I mean. Peaceful. I think you've earned that much at least"
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"Normal dying, huh." Or did you end up facedown in a gutter.
"You," he says, dryly. "You think I've earned that?"
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"Why wouldn't I? You work hard, we have common goals on occasion. And every world ending, time altering, apocalyptic hoohaw you've come up against.. you stop it. Every time. Who better deserves a golden sunset than you."
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But -- Crowley's right, and Dean quietly thinks the same, though he'll never voice it out loud. Instead he shrugs one shoulder, stuffs a bite of pancake in his mouth.
"Nah. I'll probably die on the job. That's okay."
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"Well," finally.
"Not today you won't. You've got me now."
going w/what i know bc im too tired to look up camping in national parks
His lips quirk a little; every time he works with Crowley he gets the shit beat out of him in some capacity but he's gotta confess - he hasn't died yet, and Crowley has his uses.
"Guess I do." He clears his throat, then opens the file, showing it to Crowley.
"Okay. So -- This is Victoria Jones, last seen camping at Mt. Mitchell, in North Carolina two weeks ago. This," he flips the paper over, "is Matthew Donovan, last seen camping in the Pisgah National forest, North Carolina, three weeks ago. And this--" a final page flip, "is Juanita Ramirez, reported missing a week ago, went camping somewhere off the Blue Ridge parkway."
He moves the three pictures and their case files off to the side, then shows Crowley a map, the campgrounds where the first two hikers were spotted circled, but the third hiker is more of a problem.
"So we know about where these first two are, but we don't have much concrete information about Juanita. The parkway is 469 miles, and no one really knew where she planned to stop. There's a lot of places off the beaten path that she could've went - and what's more annoying?"
He sighs.
"She was a hiker - so her car is parked at the base camp, and has been for a month. So that doesn't give us much information about where she might've disappeared. That's where I think your, uh. Puppy will come in handy."
dw is a piece of shit
Finally, once Dean has spoken and there's been a beat to think. Another beat to pull over the photographs of the missing people. He decides Juanita has a pretty face and bouncy hair and it would be a waste of both for her to die.
And, as much as he hates to admit it, he wants the brownie points with Dean.
"This is impressive, I have to hand you that. You do actually know what you're doing half the time, don't you."
It's a backhanded compliment but a compliment all the same. It isn't in his nature of be candid unless he has to, but he also knows Dean can read between the lines because they have very similar armor and so it doesn't really matter anyway. Water off a duck's back to get to the real meaning.
"I can do this. Won't take a moment for my girl, we just need the missing's scent. We get to the car, we get the scent and it's straight on till morning."
let me have my drowley godammit
Sob
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