"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."
What a mighty mortal you are, Dean. Walking in the paths of gods.
It's such a shame you got out when you did. You would have been such a delightful demon but.. also.. perhaps it would have removed the spark which Crowley finds so attractive intriguing.
"Right.. right. I mean after parties too but.. of course."
A sigh.
"Well at least all that talent isn't completely wasted up here. Shall we?, lovey?" he gestures.
It's easy to talk. Easier to talk with dean without Sam there. And less likely that Dean tells him to shut the fuck up.
It's nice.
Rare.
He gets to sit in the front like a big boy, though Sam's butt groove doesn't go unnoticed and he absolutely hates it.
What he does love is the idea of replacing it with his own, if only to fuck with Sam a little.
They'll find the car soon enough. And while Crowley is more than capable of opening the door or just appearing inside, he far prefers watching Dean jimmy it open like a common criminal while he plays lookout.
Which he isn't very good at because he's just eating skittles and watching Dean's ass.
It's probably an hours worth of chatting they have to do, shooting the shit and arguing about everything from breakfast foods to what came first, the chicken or the egg?
It's...weirdly fun, it Dean's being honest with himself. Sam is rarely this much fun, and while Dean obviously doesn't trust Crowley and fully expects to get screwed, he still enjoys himself, enjoys the banter, the easy back and forth. It's an interesting rapport they have.
He's working on getting the car open, sliding the hook in and tipping it back and forth, before glancing over his shoulder.
"Which one? I have so many to offer," he says and slips off his perch to
come over and have a look, passing Dean the skittles as he does. Look,
there's even a few left. Lucky you.
They were Dean's to begin with but nevermind.
Crowley leans in and finds a sweater conveniently on the floor of the car
which he picks up with some small measure of disgust.
"Yeah, this'll work," he says and stands up.
"Back in a tick. Kisses."
Before he blinks out. But don't worry. He'll be back in a minute or two.
He's just gone to get his doggie.
That would be funny, wouldn't it. Eh, I'm bored. Bye, Dean.
He does think about it, but Crowley finds after a minute or two that he was
rather enjoying the mission. Maybe just the company. So much to his own
disgust (lies, he loves it), he will reappear holding the sweater with his
other hand resting high on the neck of a very large, very invisible
Hellhound.
And he starts to wonder if that’s what happened, and he’s searching the glove box for more information, anything that could help, when Crowley comes back.
The hair on the back of his neck rises and he tenses, muscles poising for flight. He knows there’s a hellhound there, he asked Crowley to bring it, but he doesn’t like it.
Crowley gets a middle finger when he turns around, though when he moves, he'll trail after, keeping a solid distance between himself and the demon and his pupper.
No thanks. He knows exactly what that things teeth can do.
It is tempting but this isn't exactly shaping up to be a rendition of Brokeback Mountain and that movie is depressing enough as it is.
So.. no. No, he follows his dog dutifully who catches the scent soon enough and brings them deep, deep into the woods, down a steep ravine to a large pipe big enough for a short man to stand in. It was placed there decades ago to help with runoff of the melting spring snow and slow subsidence of the earth. It smells foul with detritus but more than that is the scent of blood.
Crowley whistles low and stops about ten feet in, signaling for Dean to come here and stay close. You wanted your beastie, he's in here. But it would have taken you days or weeks of searching to find this place if you ever found it at all.
There's a drag on blood on the side of the tunnel where someone tried desperately to grip and save themselves. Definitely the right place.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"Maybe someday if you're a good boy. Besides, most of it would kill you."
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"Well, that sounds boring. I've been to heaven, it wasn't that much fun."
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He shrugs.
"I dunno. We were being chased by angels, so. Less than fun."
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"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."
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He'd forgotten for a moment.
What a mighty mortal you are, Dean. Walking in the paths of gods.
It's such a shame you got out when you did. You would have been such a delightful demon but.. also.. perhaps it would have removed the spark which Crowley finds so
attractiveintriguing."Right.. right. I mean after parties too but.. of course."
A sigh.
"Well at least all that talent isn't completely wasted up here. Shall we?, lovey?" he gestures.
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"Mmmhm, probably time to go." They've lingered and chatter long enough, they have a drive up the Parkway to keep chatting, so.
Let Dean go pee, and they'll be off.
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It's nice.
Rare.
He gets to sit in the front like a big boy, though Sam's butt groove doesn't go unnoticed and he absolutely hates it.
What he does love is the idea of replacing it with his own, if only to fuck with Sam a little.
They'll find the car soon enough. And while Crowley is more than capable of opening the door or just appearing inside, he far prefers watching Dean jimmy it open like a common criminal while he plays lookout.
Which he isn't very good at because he's just eating skittles and watching Dean's ass.
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It's...weirdly fun, it Dean's being honest with himself. Sam is rarely this much fun, and while Dean obviously doesn't trust Crowley and fully expects to get screwed, he still enjoys himself, enjoys the banter, the easy back and forth. It's an interesting rapport they have.
He's working on getting the car open, sliding the hook in and tipping it back and forth, before glancing over his shoulder.
"You could help with this, you know."
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"Believe me, I'm doing both of us a favor. I'mm all thumbs with that sort of thing."
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"There we go."
He opens the door and pokes his head in, squinting a little, before pulling out and glancing at Crowley.
"Think it's time for your party trick."
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"Which one? I have so many to offer," he says and slips off his perch to come over and have a look, passing Dean the skittles as he does. Look, there's even a few left. Lucky you.
They were Dean's to begin with but nevermind.
Crowley leans in and finds a sweater conveniently on the floor of the car which he picks up with some small measure of disgust.
"Yeah, this'll work," he says and stands up.
"Back in a tick. Kisses."
Before he blinks out. But don't worry. He'll be back in a minute or two. He's just gone to get his doggie.
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All he can do is lean against the car and wait, popping skittles into his mouth.
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That would be funny, wouldn't it. Eh, I'm bored. Bye, Dean.
He does think about it, but Crowley finds after a minute or two that he was rather enjoying the mission. Maybe just the company. So much to his own disgust (lies, he loves it), he will reappear holding the sweater with his other hand resting high on the neck of a very large, very invisible Hellhound.
"Did you miss me?"
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That would be a dick move, definitely.
And he starts to wonder if that’s what happened, and he’s searching the glove box for more information, anything that could help, when Crowley comes back.
The hair on the back of his neck rises and he tenses, muscles poising for flight. He knows there’s a hellhound there, he asked Crowley to bring it, but he doesn’t like it.
“Always. You bring your critter?”
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"No I'm just holding my hand like this for fun," he answers dryly and pets his pup whilst giving Dean a look. You dumb fuck.
But nevermind. He holds the sweater to be sniffed and smiles.
"Alright then, go find her."
And off they go, Crowley following his dog, Dean following Crowley, far and away into the wilderness like the world's worst hikers.
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No thanks. He knows exactly what that things teeth can do.
God, you better not leave him out here.
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So.. no. No, he follows his dog dutifully who catches the scent soon enough and brings them deep, deep into the woods, down a steep ravine to a large pipe big enough for a short man to stand in. It was placed there decades ago to help with runoff of the melting spring snow and slow subsidence of the earth. It smells foul with detritus but more than that is the scent of blood.
Crowley whistles low and stops about ten feet in, signaling for Dean to come here and stay close. You wanted your beastie, he's in here. But it would have taken you days or weeks of searching to find this place if you ever found it at all.
There's a drag on blood on the side of the tunnel where someone tried desperately to grip and save themselves. Definitely the right place.