Some Crowley/Bobby preslash (if you squint) for you as they are my faves. Oh and: Marcy!
Supernatural belongs to Ben Edlund and Eric Kripke and stuff (basically not to me), this is a fanfic and I make no money of of it at all.
Un-beta'd but hopefully no mistakes. - Let me know if there is.
(cross posted to tumblr and livejournal)
Marcy adjusts the tray of cookies in her hands and reaches down to tug down her best skirt as she makes her way through the lot and up onto the porch of Bobby's house. She goes to knock before something tightens in her chest and she pulls her hand back. The doors already unlocked. When she touches it swings open.
Marcy swallows and steps through the doorway into the hall tiptoeing through into the living room, her 'hello's come out as a hoarse whisper. The room is a mess; bottles scattered about the floor, papers and tables at odd angles or altogether overturned. It looks like a bombsite. Or worse. There's an un-Bobby like groan from the couch and before she can stop herself she's shrieking with fear, lifting the tray above her head and bringing it down on the noggin of the figure sprawled over the cushions
"OW! Bloody Hell!" Marcy shrieks again and lifts the tray; the man on the sofa lifts a hand in self defence the other clamped over his sore head. The next thing she knows Bobby is thumping down the stairs in his boxer shorts and dressing gown shotgun in one hand
"What the hell is going on here?" he bellows before squinting at her bemusedly "Marcy?" the man on the sofa groans again, his hand flailing in the air limply "Crowley? Marcy are you okay?"
"Bobby!" she squeaks
"I'm fine, Bobby, really." Grunts the little mafia boss as he struggles to right himself, hunched over the arm of the sofa, one hand holding his head, eye scrunched shut against the light. One dark iris peeks out from between pained eyelids. He looks at Marcy blearily
"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing? You could have brained me!"
"Oh my god!" Marcy cries waving her hands as she babbles apology after apology, dithering on the spot, torn between cleaning the cookies from the floor and tending to the stranger. Bobby sighs at the carnage that is his house and slumps down the stairs
"It's alright, Marcy, really." Bobby sighs and begins to pluck the cookies from the floor and put them back on the tray, Marcy takes this as her cue to run into the kitchen fill a glass with cold water and bring it back for the man on the couch. He sighs as he takes it from her
"Thank you." Despite what all common sense says should be done with a glass Crowley chooses instead to press it to his forehead. He groans with pleasure at the cool and sinks a little into the cushions.
"Here." Bobby says as he hands the tray of cookies to his still jittery next door neighbour
"Jesus don't give 'em back to her!" Crowley cries dismayed from somewhere beneath the sofa cushions but Bobby ignores him
"What'ya doin' here Marcy?"
"I came to- to give you these," Marcy attempts to smile but it's weak and nervous, she holds out the tray of now ruined and dirty cookies. Bobby pulls his mouth up into a half exasperated smile. That's his life all over.
"Thanks." He grunts. Marcy toes the carpet
"I also... I wanted to apologies and thank-thank you. For what you did." Bobby does smile then though it's been a long time since he's been thanked and he's caught a little off guard by it. He wonders if a pat on the shoulder would be appropriate or not but he doesn't have to worry long as his neighbour turns to his less than healthy guest who eyes them sullenly from the sofa.
Marcy apologises to him to a painful extent and the headache that had been blossoming in the demons head, from a cocktail of hangover and bashing, begins to bloom into a full grown migraine. Eventually Bobby takes her arm to turn her away from the patient who's hiding his irritation less and less successfully, she apologises a couple of hundred times more, and gives a garbled explanation as to why she'd felt fit to assault a man in Bobby's living room, before heading to the door.
She pauses at the threshold to peer curiously at the little British man on the sofa one last time before ducking out of the front door and waving her goodbyes from the yard.
Bobby sighs. Crowley groans and doubles over holding his aching head in both hands. Bobby grunts at him
"Yeah, yeah, thanks for the concern!" he hisses through tight teeth, the glass has cooled to room temperature. Bobby slopes into the kitchen, fills a plastic bag with ice, tilts the demon back into the sofa and holds it against his forehead for him. Crowley makes a sound of mixed relief and pleasure, somewhere between a purr a groan and sigh, and closes his eyes.
"Serves you right for invading a guy's home with that pansy alcohol of yours." Bobby chides and Crowley grunts at him. He cracks one eye open to peer at Bobby suspiciously
"Who was that?" Bobby watches him "Girlfriend?" Crowley rasps through a throat that feels like someone's been at it with sandpaper
"Neighbour." He rumbles at length and he feels the nod against his hand. Crowley wriggles and shifts in an attempt to get comfortable on the sofa, tilting his face away. He sighs and closes his eyes, pulling one shoulder up against his chin and bunching his jacket up around his waist
"Close those damn curtains."