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[venatoris]

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let me have my drowley godammit

[venatoris]

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).

Sob

[thesalesman]

No, Sam would rather die than work with a demon Dean chooses. If Sam makes the decision then it's fine. Obviously.

Double standard? Double standard.

"Well then. What's the etiquette, here. Finish breakfast and go or rush out without fulfillment?"

[venatoris]

Obviously. That's not irritating at all, is it?

"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.

[thesalesman]

"We don't need to, no," Crowley answers as he goes back to his grub. As if he's agreed that yes, it is a lovely day today.

"But food is one of life's greatest pleasures and why would I ever deny myself that."

[venatoris]

"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.

[thesalesman]

Crowley gives a beat. There's two ways to handle this.

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."

[venatoris]

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.

[thesalesman]

[well that's a beautiful sight. Crowley admires it for a moment with a smile of his own before carrying on as if nothing had been said.

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. ]

[venatoris]

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."

[thesalesman]

"Thank you," he says and, surprisingly, means it.

"Finally someone appreciates my genius."

[venatoris]

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."

[thesalesman]

"It can in quantity. And there are more specialised blends for we of mysterious blood."

[venatoris]

"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?"

[thesalesman]

More bad coffee won't make the coffee less bad, Dean. You can try but it won't change the fact.

"You honestly haven't considered that the legions of the supernatural wouldn't invent their own party drugs? With all our power and years?"

[venatoris]

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.

[thesalesman]

What a waste of your efforts.

"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."

[venatoris]

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.

"Like what?"

[thesalesman]

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."

[venatoris]

The waitress finally does swing by and tops Dean's crappy coffee back up, which he is happy to pull towards himself and sip.

"Funny, Jefferson. But alright. You keep your secrets."

If you insist.

[thesalesman]

Crowley snerks and shrugs.

"Maybe someday if you're a good boy. Besides, most of it would kill you."

[venatoris]

He flicks a crumb at Crowley before polishing off the last bite of his pancake.

"Well, that sounds boring. I've been to heaven, it wasn't that much fun."

[thesalesman]

"Not everything it's cracked up to be?"

[venatoris]

He shrugs.

"I dunno. We were being chased by angels, so. Less than fun."

[thesalesman]

"No, I imagine not. They are the least amount of fun. For what it's worth the real party is downstairs. As much as I'm sure yo're loathe to hear, it's true."

[venatoris]

"Oh, I've been there. I know exactly what kind of party you've got going on."

He takes a sip of his coffee, grimacing a little.

"I'll pass."