"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."
Crowley gets a look, but he's right - Dean can read between the lines, and somehow, the two of them share a certain rapport that Sam can't seem to replicate.
With anyone, apparently. God that kid needs to work on his people skills, and that's saying something coming from Dean.
"Yeah, that's what I was thinkin'." Use the hellhound as a, well. Hound. Give her something to do that isn't ripping Dean's soft little belly into shreds. It would help a whole lot to find the girl, even if it's a little unorthodox, and Sam would rather die than work with a demon (again - hypocrit).
Dean just finds it hilarious, true or not, and he's shaking his head
as his laughter subsides, stabbing at his pancakes before stuffing a bite
into his mouth.
"That doesn't surprise me, no. What with the two brain cells working overdrive as it is."
But there's no heat behind it. He's only playing. He knows how devastatingly clever you really are. Many, many people underestimate The Winchesters. Not Crowley. Not even once.
"For the record there are scores of fun things for us lot to play with and they're all shatteringly brilliant."
What do you want him to do Crowley, he can't friggin' magic up good coffee. Besides, you suggested this hole in the wall.
"Cute," he says, pointing his fork at Crowley before digging back in. "Real cute."
It's the reason Dean even thinks about working with him - he knows Crowley doesn't underestimate them, and to an extent, he knows that they have the demons respect, too. Trust, eh. Not so much. Dean's fully expecting to get backstabbed on this case, but knowing is half the battle.
Maybe. Maybe not. We'll see how the weather is once they're down there. Crowley isn't overly concerned about one little filthy wendigo. It's not like they're going into a nest of powerful demons.
What's a magic rat compared to a thing like Crowley.
"Oh.. ppf. Well one pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small," he teases with a coy smile.
"And the ones that mother gives you don't do anything at all."
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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
With anyone, apparently. God that kid needs to work on his people skills, and that's saying something coming from Dean.
"Yeah, that's what I was thinkin'." Use the hellhound as a, well. Hound. Give her something to do that isn't ripping Dean's soft little belly into shreds. It would help a whole lot to find the girl, even if it's a little unorthodox, and Sam would rather die than work with a demon (again - hypocrit).
Sob
Double standard? Double standard.
"Well then. What's the etiquette, here. Finish breakfast and go or rush out without fulfillment?"
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"No, we're...definitely gonna finish. Or at least, I am. Do demons eat, or do you just consume souls?"
It's asked like he's asking about the freakin' weather.
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"But food is one of life's greatest pleasures and why would I ever deny myself that."
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"So what do you do if you do eat and you don't need to, do you poop?"
He needs to know, he's curious as hell.
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The childish way or the mature way.
Dean is a five year old.
(Un)fortunately so is Crowley.
"You would combust with envy if you knew how good a demon shit is, Dean."
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It's a genuine question! Where does it go? Does it burn off? Disappear? Do you poop?
He stares at Crowley for a moment, jaw loose, before he bursts into laughter, head bowing over his place of pancakes.
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Sure, he could magic away the nuisance of excretion and ablutions but sometimes a man just wants to have a good shit. And shouldn't he. ]
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Absolutely. Nothing wrong with that.
Dean just finds it hilarious, true or not, and he's shaking his head as his laughter subsides, stabbing at his pancakes before stuffing a bite into his mouth.
"You're funny."
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"Finally someone appreciates my genius."
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He glances up, flashing a genuine little smile, before stuffing another bite into his mouth.
"So -- alcohol, drugs. That affect you? It doesn't bother Cas."
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"Specialized blends?"
He takes a sip of his coffee, makes a face, then sets it on the edge of the table, a hint for the waitress to come by and top him off.
"What do you mean?"
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"You honestly haven't considered that the legions of the supernatural wouldn't invent their own party drugs? With all our power and years?"
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No, but it'll at least heat it up. Bad, cold coffee is gross, as a whole.
"I guess I just never put a lot of thought into it."
He's been too busy killing you guys, you know.
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"That doesn't surprise me, no. What with the two brain cells working overdrive as it is."
But there's no heat behind it. He's only playing. He knows how devastatingly clever you really are. Many, many people underestimate The Winchesters. Not Crowley. Not even once.
"For the record there are scores of fun things for us lot to play with and they're all shatteringly brilliant."
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"Cute," he says, pointing his fork at Crowley before digging back in. "Real cute."
It's the reason Dean even thinks about working with him - he knows Crowley doesn't underestimate them, and to an extent, he knows that they have the demons respect, too. Trust, eh. Not so much. Dean's fully expecting to get backstabbed on this case, but knowing is half the battle.
"Like what?"
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What's a magic rat compared to a thing like Crowley.
"Oh.. ppf. Well one pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small," he teases with a coy smile.
"And the ones that mother gives you don't do anything at all."
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"Funny, Jefferson. But alright. You keep your secrets."
If you insist.
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