Disclaimer: Characters are not mine! All characters belong to Supernatural.

A/N: I'm really having fun writing these two out, even if it takes me forever to do so. Relatively shorter chapter as well, but overall sweet. I, again, don't have much to update you guys on and just wanted to say that I really appreciate you all sitting down and reading this story. Thank you all again and please, enjoy. ^^

Warning: Mentions of insomniac stress disorder.. that's it.


He wakes up when the sun still isn't out quite yet, and there are lips against his jaw.

The hunter's disoriented and groggy but he knows when there's a steady pressure against his side, or when someone's dragging kisses along his jaw and to his ear, but yet he doesn't know why and he doesn't know how long the other's been going at it.

It was a lazy thing, from what he could tell, as he felt the other's arm along his side and the mans knee against the curve of his hip. He recalls wondering if the other was an insomniac, seeing as no matter where they were or what time it was, Crowley was almost always never sleeping - but never brought up the courage to ask when he felt the other's nose nuzzle along the area right before his ear and against his temple. Instead he shifted slightly, giving the impression of 'stirring awake' and it allowed Crowley to know he was no longer asleep. He could feel the other go still before there was a soft hum, a silent beat, and then a, "Are you up, love?"

Bobby doesn't open his eyes for the longest time, and instead of replying in words, he groaned as if it were some form of an acceptable response. It was then he noticed the fingers in his hair, softly brushing through the strands, but not in any.. suggestive manor. Again, it was lazy, drawn out and absent. It sort of made Bobby wonder what he was doing, which brought up the question as to why the other was even awake.

"Havin' trouble sleepin'?" he slurred out, which sounded more incoherent than he would prefer, but it seemed Crowley understood none the less.

He hummed a little slow, not quite answering but Bobby knew he'd get a response at some point, by how the others lips had stopped pressing against his jaw, "You could say that."

Bobby managed to peek an eye open, raising a brow at the man hovering above him in the dark. His face was covered in shadows, but the hunter could still make out the soft colour of his eyes and the dark circles underneath them; he could still make out the tension between his brows and that his lips were pursed briefly before relaxing. He looked as if he was getting ready to say something, but kept biting his tongue.

"What's wrong?" It was redundant to ask, he already knew what was wrong, but he wasn't sure if that was exactly what was bothering him at the moment. Crowley seemed drawn between telling him and trying to go back to sleep, but eventually he cracked, shifting on his elbows.

"Do you have any ice cream?"

That wasn't at all what he expected to hear.

"What?" Bobby coughed, shifting upwards so he was resting on his elbows. He was almost certain he misheard him, but Crowley validated his questioning with the same answer, pushing up with his hands until he was sitting back on his heels.

"Ice cream," he insisted, "do you have any?"

"Ah," he blinked, eyes still on his face before glancing towards the door, then back again, "I, uh- I don't think so?" Bobby shook his head, "Why?"

Crowley sighed, "I've been thinking about it all day," he admitted, tone slow before slipping his legs out of the covers and maneuvering them onto the floor. Bobby watched him, dumbfounded, as the other stepped over to the door and pulled his shoes from beside the entrance, Rumsfeld not stirring as he began slipping them on.

"Wh- what are you doing?" Bobby didn't realize he was pushing his covers off until his feet hit the floor. Crowley didn't look up at him, but Bobby didn't miss the slight shrug in his shoulders.

"Going to get ice cream."

"What time-" the hunter began, his eyes darting over to the digital clock resting on his night stand, blinking furiously at it until he was absolutelysure that's what it said, "it's- Jesus, it's three in the morning, Crowley," Bobby turned his head to face the Scotsman, who was struggling with one of his laces, "this seriously can't wait until the sun's up?"

There was a pregnant pause, then "No."

Bobby couldn't have sighed harder, running his hands against his face as if it could somehow possibly make sense of this. It was too damn early in the morning to feel this exasperated.

"Fine, fine, you win, but just.. take off the shoes," Crowley, for the first time since he's slithered out of bed, gave him a curious look from over his shoulder. Bobby waved it off, "you're not wearing dress shoes in pajama's, damn it. I've got some downstairs that just might fit you," he said, pushing himself out of bed before moving over to his dresser to grab a pair of something to cover his legs. His hands landed on more plaid pajama's, so that's what he slipped on.

"Oh, darling, you don't have to come along-"

"S'too late, m'already up," Bobby waved off, gesturing for the other to take off his other shoe as he maneuvered around his Rottweiler and out of the room, "besides, you ain't going by yourself. Not to mention I doubt you even know where a 24 hour place is even at..-" he paused, then added, "that isn't in the city," he glanced back into the room to the man standing in the doorway. The hunter didn't really even have to see his face to imagine he looked sheepish, "see what I mean?"

"Thank's, love," and Crowley was too damn tired to sound that sincere, but he did, and it took Bobby's all to simply brush it off.

"Don't worry about it," the hunter reassured idly, before he heard a soft thud emanate from the room, and imagined it was Crowley's other shoe falling to the wooden floor, who soon stepped out and trailed along behind him.

They made their way down the steps in silence, at least until Bobby reached the kitchen and pulled open his supply closet. There were a few pairs of shoes littering the floor, some of which were far more filthier than other's, compared to the few that's only been worn once or twice. He pulled out a pair he's probably only put on a couple of times, and handed them over to the Scotsman who took them carefully, eyeing them a moment before going to sit down and slip them on. His feet only had to be a bit smaller than his own, so he didn't really think that the size difference would matter.

He pulled out a worn pair of shoes that he usually wore when heading off to the store, or when he's moving around the salvage yard; slipping them on easily enough.

Crowley was still trying to knot his second shoe as Bobby pulled out one of his jackets, tossing it over to the other man who just barely caught it, letting his foot slip to the ground. Bobby pulled his own off the back of his chair, before snagging his keys off of the hook by the door. Crowley was behind him in seconds, zipping up his jacket as Bobby held the door open as they made to slip outside.

There was a soft burst of cold wind that spread into the house in a vigorous flourish. Their breath becoming white clouds as they stepped out into the bitter early morning, rushing to his truck, which was a hell of a lot closer than the Scotsman's car, and quickly stumbled inside. They huffed, with Bobby fumbling to get the car running and the heat going, as Crowley breathed warmth into the palms of his hands; once the car started, Bobby immediately turned on the heat, waiting a few beats before he was certain it kicked on, sending the other man a look.

"You sure you still want to get ice cream?" he asked, glancing in his direction, struggling to make out the features of the other's face. Crowley nodded, and at least Bobby could still see that. With a weary sigh, he put his hands to the frost-bitten wheel, "alright then," he murmured, sticking his shift into gear, flicking on his headlights, and pulling out.

His engine coughed a few times, but didn't give out as he maneuvered them onto the street. He took a sharp left which would lead them into town, with the road smooth and the tires quiet as they drove along. There was a comfortable silence that had settled in the truck, which Bobby felt tempted to break; mostly due to a single question he couldn't get out of his head.

"What is it?" and if Bobby had been a lesser man, he might have jumped. Instead he quirked a brow, and turned his inquired head towards the man in the passenger seat a moment, only to find that the others sharp eyes were already on him. Bobby coughed, quickly returning his gaze back to the road.

"What is what?" he asked, tapping his finger against the wheel.

"You've got your jaw set, love," came the murmured reply, "mean's you're thinking," and the comment put the hunter at a pause, because how could he possibly know that?

Yet Bobby often likes to forget that Crowley works with people for a living, and that reading people is what he does; he also, often times, likes to forget that although he's not one of Crowley's clients, he's still a person, and he's still readable.

"Yeah," he coughed, eyes glancing along the roadside before settling towards the long stretch of road in front of them, "I was ah, I was wondering if- if this was something you usually did?" Bobby knew he didn't have to specify, but he took it into account that it was still three in the morning and Crowley probably hadn't slept for more than twenty some minutes tonight, "Y'know, with the midnight snack runs?"

There was a thoughtful sound on the other's lips, "sometimes," he said, almost as if it were an afterthought rather than an answer, "I realize that it might have seemed a bit odd for me to wake you up asking for food."

"Might have?" Bobby chuckled, and maybe it came out a bit sharper than he intended, but Crowley didn't seem put off by it.

"It's been a bad day," he said quietly, shifting so his hands were resting between his thighs for warmth. His mouth quirked as he tried to hide a frown, but doing a rather poor job at concealing it. Crowley couldn't have been more thankful for the fact that the sun hadn't risen, and won't for a few more hours.

Something seemed to click with the older hunter who, quite suddenly, felt guilty for snapping at him earlier, "you eat when you're upset, don't you?"

Crowley was quiet, but that was all the answer Bobby needed.

"You know, you can tell me these things," Bobby began, his tone growing soft, "you don't have to.. to pretend around me. You're going through a lot, and if asking me to get you.. bucket's of ice cream at three in the morning makes you feel better, even just a little bit, then so be it."

Crowley still hadn't said a word, and for a moment, Bobby worried if he had said the right thing; however, before he could try to amend it, he felt a warm hand brush against his wrist where his palm had been resting over the leather shift. There was a gentle tug where his hand slipped off and Bobby almost asked what the other was doing, at least until he felt Crowley's warm palm clasp over his own, intertwining their fingers and letting it rest between their bodies, but never saying a word.

Crowley stayed relatively silent after that, but Bobby didn't overlook the fact that his.. his partner's hand was shaking a bit in his grasp; and although the hunter couldn't tell if it was due to the cold or nervousness, he opted to thinking it was the former, and cursed his truck for taking so long to heat up.

The drive was steady and forward, and the street's stretched out before them were long and near abandoned. The branches of the tree's were still, and the sky was completely cloudless while Sioux Falls was covered by that thin white sheet of snow, sitting in fragile layers against the untouched outstretch of land and forest around them. Bobby glanced over in the Scotsman's direction, whose focus and gaze was out of the window and towards the shadows dancing off of the snow. He didn't notice the hunters faint stare, and if he did, he never made a notion to acknowledge it. The hunter couldn't help but allow his gaze to flicker from the road to him, because honestly, he hadn't felt so enraptured by someone as much as he did with Crowley. It's just taken him a little longer to figure it out for himself.

It wasn't until Bobby pulled up to the convenience store, did they take their hands back. Bobby deliberately left his keys in the car, planning to keep it running so that the heater could stay running for when they got back. Bobby slipped out of his seat and slammed the heavy door behind him, walking around his truck, him and Crowley were quick to rush inside.

The lights were bright if not a little overbearing, blinking a few times to adjust his vision. Bobby gave the place a brief scan before spotting the middle aged woman sitting behind the counter; she was working on a crossword puzzle as she looked up at the two entering men. She didn't say anything, choosing to shoot them a friendly smile before dropping her attention back to the booklet, leaving the two men be.

The store was small, to say the least. It had about six or seven aisle's in the middle, with multiple stands pressed against the stretch of wall, and a freezer section in the back. Crowley made a soft sound as he looked the little store over, trying to map the place out as he grabbed one of the black carrying baskets and handed it to Bobby to hold.

The hunter was sure he heard Crowley mutter under his breath, but he couldn't be certain what he said as he trailed behind him to the back. The Scotsman stopped once he reached where he wanted to be, looking inside before glancing to the hunter.

"What kind do you want?" Crowley questioned, turning his eyes back to the glass of the freezer.

"We came here to get you ice cream, not me," the hunter mumbled, shifting to his opposite foot as he adjusted the basket in his hold.

Crowley shot him a look, "If you think you're not eating any, you're delusional."

Bobby sighed, he should have realized it wasn't going to be a quick run 'n go. "Uh, whatever you're having."

"No," Crowley brushed his answer off, "you have to have a preference."

"I really don't care what we have," the hunter breathed, but Crowley shot him a glare and he gave in with a huff, "fine. Fine, ah-" he glanced to the freezer, reading over a few names until he found one that sounded familiar, "I don't know, ah-" he murmured, "mint chocolate."

Crowley made an appreciative hum, pulling open the freezer door and made to pull out two cartons, placing them in the basket Bobby was holding before pausing. He glanced inside and grabbed a Vanilla and a Moose Tracks before placing them in as well.

"Whipped cream," he announced it as if it were a statement, heading down the aisle and all Bobby could do was follow. Crowley stopped a little ways down, pulling open another door, he reached inside to pull out two cans and placed them in the basket, distractedly walking somewhere else.

"Y'know, if you're hungry, I can make you something to eat," Bobby offered, watching as Crowley eyed a few bags of chips. The Scotsman gave a small shrug of his shoulders, not looking up to meet the hunters eyes as he shook his head.

"I'm not hungry, per say," he started, "I just want food. Or the, uh- the illusion of actual food, something to put my teeth to," he breathed, pulling a small bag of some off brand chip from their station and eyed it for a few moments before placing it back with a sigh, "sorry, darling. I know that probably doesn't make much sense."

"It doesn't have to make sense," the hunter shrugged, "get whatever you need, alright? S'on me."

Crowley paused then, looking up at the hunter with a guilt ridden expression, "No! No, dear you really don't have to-"

"Crowley, for the last time, don't worry about it," Bobby insisted, narrowing his eyes at the man, "I know I don't have to. I know I don't have to do anything. I want to, that's the whole reason I'm offerin', y'idjit."

The Scotsman always seemed to look pleasantly surprised with him, that it was beginning to make him wonder what Crowley honestly expected when he got into this strange little makeshift whatever it is they have. He wasn't sure if he expected a mean old drunk, or for him to be careless or rude, but he couldn't help but find it amusing that he's not the only one figuring out that he shouldn't put labels on the other.

And here he was, acting worried that Crowley could read him.

He was just as clueless about this as he was.

He didn't even remember seeing the other move, but Bobby was suddenly aware that there was a hand on his shoulder, pulling him down before feeling a warm peck on his cheek; he might have even returned it, had he not noticed a bit more weight in the basket, "I'd hate for you to think I'm using you," the Scotsman murmured, leaning back on his feet and letting go of his grip on the hunter. His hand slipping down so it was resting on his forearm instead, which Bobby paid little mind to as he glanced to see what was placed in the carrier.

"Crowley, you get more money in a week than I do in a year," and although it was a sad truth, Bobby found himself chuckling, "If anything, I'd be using you."

"If that's the case you're doing a terrible job at stealing my money," Crowley sniped playfully, his expression light, "especially considering you pay for everything, and then some."

"It's all part of the plan," the hunter replied over his shoulder as he stepped out of the aisle, moving onto the next, "I get you to trust me, and soon enough you'll give me your credit card number and then I'll bleed you dry."

"Ah, ah ah, telling the victim your plan?" Crowley shook his head disapprovingly, "You're worse at this than I thought. Your retched scheme will never prevail," perhaps there was supposed to be something else that followed that statement, perhaps not; regardless, it never came once he took a good look around the aisle they stopped in. There wasn't food here, but rather little supplies hanging up, and left over decorations from New Years. There were a few mirrors, some candles, as well as office supplies- many of which were broken but they paid it little mind.

Bobby glanced over the items before his eyes landed on a leather bound notebook; he did need a new one, didn't he? His current books are already filled out, and he's been using sticky notes to hold the pages he's scribbled on. Shrugging he pulled it off the shelf and grabbed a pack of felt tip pens, tossing them into the basket absently. There was a faint chuckle coming from his far left, making to turn as he saw Crowley standing at a small booth.

His hands were shuffling through a bin of seventy cent movies dating back to some time in the 60's when Bobby finally caught up to where he was standing, he was holding a cartoon Dracula remake that was sitting in a thin case, and in his other hand he was holding an off branded 'Little Mermaid' movie, where she's blonde rather than a red head.

"Why are there movies here?" Crowley asked bemusedly, "and why are half of the packaging's ripped?"

"Kids, probably," Bobby answered, scanning his eyes over the films, "and that's a good question."

"And why is there a selection of thin, black off-leather belts here too?" the Scotsman scrunched up his nose, "who stops at a twenty-four seven place and decides they need a belt."

"Someone in a hurry," the hunter shrugged, "who knows, people are strange."

Crowley snorted, "can you imagine? A man on his way to a business meeting and having to stop at a 7-Eleven because he forgot his belt."

Bobby made a soft amused sound in the back of his throat, "more like a kid on their way to a job interview."

"Or a pair of rowdy youth's trying something new," that got a surprised laugh out of the hunter, who shot him a dirty look in spite of this.

"Are you done yet?" Bobby asked, instead of making to comment on the others statement, "did you get everythin' you needed?"

Crowley nodded, letting his eyes fall into the basket before sorting them around, "We've got Ice cream, whipped cream.. pens and a book?" he tilted his head, "I'm not sure how you plan to eat that, but please fill me in once you do."

Bobby rolled his eyes but allowed the other to continue to rummage to make sure everything was there. Once he was satisfied, Crowley grabbed his forearm and pulled him to the front; he didn't have to, of course, because Bobby would have followed anyways, but Crowley had a habit of pulling him along as though the hunter would be lost without him. Bobby wondered if it was a subconscious thing, or whether Crowley just liked knowing that he could, but he didn't question it aloud.

"You boys find everything alright?" the woman at the register asked, pulling the content out of the carrier once Bobby had lifted the basket to the counter, and making to scan. She had a soft voice, with gentle features and a sullen face; her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and her eyes looked a bit sunken in. Dark circles were under her lids, yet she didn't exactly look as if she were inconvenienced with them walking in, but rather just tired and ready to go home. Bobby felt somewhat guilty for bothering her.

"Yes, thank you," Crowley responded, as Bobby began pulling his wallet out of his pocket, slipping the women the money as she finished ringing them up.

She glanced down at the ice cream, before glancing back up at the men with a knowing look in the eye, "how far along is she?"

Bobby blinked up at her in confusion before Crowley spoke up, "Pardon?"

"Your wife?" She began again, "sorry if I'm mistaken, but I remember when I had my first baby and I'd send my hubby out to get me some midnight snacks," she gave a gentle chuckle, before scanning the last item, "so how far along is she?"

Bobby's brows furrowed, his mouth parting and almost said that there wasn't anyone, not exactly sure why she was making assumptions until, again, Crowley spoke up before he could, "Going onto our second trimester by the end of the week," he said with a small, almost serene smile, "It's our third child, and.. Renée's becoming more spontaneous with her cravings."

Bobby blinked at him but either Crowley hadn't noticed or refused to acknowledge him just yet. It didn't seem to matter, however, because the woman behind the counter had him at full attention.

"Oh my, I know," she hummed, grabbing the bags and carefully placing them inside, being deliberately slow to get out what she wants to say, "I was all about cake for months, but now I can't even take a bite of a pancake without feeling sick."

"Renée's that way about anything healthy," Bobby had to bite down hard against the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling, "she can't look at anything green without going green herself." The woman laughed, a short hiccup of a laugh before sliding over their change, which Bobby pocketed as he reached for their bags.

"Take care, you two!" she called from behind them as they began leaving, and Crowley shot back another friendly goodbye. Once they were far enough away and closer to the car, Bobby let himself breathe, biting back his laugh.

"Renée?" he snorted incredulously, and Crowley shrugged at him, shooting him a smile over his shoulder as he made to climb back into the car.

"First name that came to mind that was close to yours," he paused, "well, second close. I wasn't about to tell a stranger I was married to a women named Roberta."

The hunter was pushing down his smile with little success, handing the Scotsman the bags, "What's wrong with that name?"

"Oh nothing," Crowley waved off, "seemed a bit too close to Robert, and decided not to take the chance of her ever finding out your name."

Bobby raised his brow at him, rounding the car and getting into his seat. The inside was warm, which was nice for a change, and watched absently as Crowley sat the bag's by his feet. Bobby pulled the car into gear, "seem's like a sort of specific thing for her to do, don't you think?" he asked, looking into his rear view mirror, and finally pulling out of the lot. Crowley pulled is seat belt on with a click, before sighing once he realized that Bobby must have missed something.

"Pinkie," he said after a second, "right hand. There was a gold and silver band, and I didn't have to get close to know it says 'Separately United'." Bobby glanced at him before forcing his eyes back on the road.

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Abaddon wears one," Crowley responded, "her and Metatron. I'd recognize those designs anywhere, mostly because she likes to flaunt she's part of that terrible little group up on main street."

Bobby paused a moment, and then, "Wait, are you talking about Little Gospel?"

"Of course," Bobby heard slight ruffling to his side, and then the crinkle of a plastic bag being moved, "that cult doesn't even deserve to call themselves religious," and this was the first time all night where he even sounded distasteful, "they're one of the reasons that something as peaceful as religion is supposed to be, has such a terrible rap to it."

"I thought you weren't religious?"

"I'm not," he sighed, "doesn't mean I can't resent people who squander.. someones sense of safety and comfort." Crowley shifted in his seat, clicking his tongue, "it's actually sort of sad, when you think about it. Did you see how quickly she rushed to assume one of us was married and had a child on the way? See, how exactly did she reach so blindly at straws to deny the fact that we could simply be spending time together and buying treats?" Bobby shook his head at him, "It's depressing how far into left field she jumped into order to justify to herself what was going on."

"You know," he continued, "she could have just as easily not said a thing, and never think of it again, but she had to ask. She had to know that we fit into that.. that- that perfect mold through a glass that she was seeing society in."

"S'just how she was raised."

"No, no no," Crowley snapped, "no, I was raised on a similar bases, but I didn't turn out like that. Being raised one way or the other is your parents putting impressions on you, and your peers telling you to think one way or another, and there isn't much breathing room to come up with your own bloody ideals, I should know. But that doesn't excuse actions, and I was fortunate enough to find my own way, and discerning what I believed in, and what I didn't, and there's an age that you hit, where you have to figure out whether or not saying something is necessary, or even wrong. And you'd be lying if you claimed that these people don't know better."

"I never said that,"

"Never said you did, love," Crowley placed his hand on the other's leg, just above his knee and gave him a reassuring squeeze, "that's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is that these people are aware that they're hurting other's. They're aware that they're going the extra mile to make sure the world fits in their image, and that woman at the counter was trying to make sure we fit too."

Bobby looked over to find Crowley looking through the windshield, watching the road and looking rather troubled, "I'm sorry it upset you."

"I'm not upset," Crowley tapped his finger against the hunters thigh, "just frustrated. I know enough about them to know that evading questions isn't particularly clever, and telling the truth often times isn't in your best interest. They're dangerous people, Robert, and I'd rather not be on the receiving end of their idiocy."

Bobby was silent for a long moment, "it's crazy how you got all that from a question," he didn't say that to be patronizing, but more out of honesty, because honestly, he didn't even catch that when she asked. Just assumed she misinterpreted the situation, and it was late and she looked tired, so he could brush it off as her losing a bit of her filter; either that or she was always that direct. He didn't catch that she was wearing a ring, nor did he catch the vibe she was giving off.

If anything, Bobby was impressed that Crowley was honestly that analytical.

"S'just something you pick up in my line of work," he stated offhandedly, trailing his hand lazily up the hunters thigh, who made a point to keep his eyes on the road, even as he felt heat rush to his cheeks, and thanked whomever was listening that it was still dark outside.

They drove the rest of the way back in silence, save for the low hum of the engine. Bobby pulled back up to the Salvage Yard, and carried the bags for the other, trailing him out of the cold and back into his warm house. Bobby was placing the bags onto his kitchen table, while Crowley had set off on a search for spoons and bowls. The hunter pulled them out of their bags, and grabbed the mint chocolate and pushed it to the side; Crowley grabbed the Moose tracks and pulled them with the other, before grabbing the spare two and placing them in the other's freezer, scooting a few things around so that they'd fit.

"Darling, could you run and grab a few blankets?" Crowley asked over his shoulder as he pulled two bowls out from one of the hunters higher cabinets. Bobby grunted his acknowledgement before placing what he was holding, back onto the table, pulling off his shoes while he was at it, before heading upstairs.

Rumsfeld greeted him once he reached the top step and trailed after him as he stepped over to his closet. Pulling out a few folded up and clean blankets, he made his way back to the first floor, the Rottweiler following him down so he could settle and sleep in front of his old oak desk. The light to his living room was now on, and Crowley was gesturing for him to place the blankets onto the couch with an ice cream scoop in his hand; Bobby didn't ask questions, and simply did as he was asked.

Shortly after, once he unfolded them and sort of draped them over the couch, Crowley was in the other room swearing under his breath as he tried and struggled to get the ice cream into the bowl. "S'too solid," he muttered bitterly, once Bobby swatted his hands away and did it for him.

"Sure it is," he replied, using a bit of force to get a few scoops out; well, Crowley wasn't wrong.

He portioned out the bowls, and gave himself a bit less than what he gave Crowley, seeing as he wasn't really all that in the mood for ice cream, but Crowley didn't want to eat it all by himself. He didn't have an issue with humouring the bastard, and let Crowley shake the can of whipped cream before placing a fair amount on both; and by fair, he means maybe a bit too much, but Bobby didn't comment out of amusement and the pleased expression on the Scotsman's face once he finally dug his spoon into his bowl.

"Do you want to watch a movie?" Crowley asked, slipping his way past the hunter and into his living room. He plopped down on the couch, patting the spot next to him for the hunter to join him. Bobby grabbed his own bowl, stepping up next to the other before taking his own seat, unintentionally a bit closer than he had originally anticipated, with their hips brushing once he leaned back.

"It's three- erm.. now four in the morning," Bobby didn't sound upset, and honestly he's lost his exasperated edge about all this an hour ago, "aren't you tired?"

"Of course I'm tired," Crowley replied carefully, measurably keeping his eyes down onto his lap where his bowl was sitting before taking a bite. He was quiet for a few moments, "Just having a hard time sleeping," he admitted, "sort of hoped this might help," there was a soft edge to his tone that suggested disappointment, "usually does, anyways."

Bobby was quiet as he watched Crowley bring the spoon up to his lips and back again, the gesture looking somewhat mechanical.

"Does this, uh," Bobby returned the others gaze once the Scotsman looked up at him at the sound of his voice, effectively throwing him off because for some reason Crowley looked as if he already knew what the other was going to say, and was already preparing himself to answer. "happen-? Er-" Bobby cleared his throat, letting his eyes drop to the other's lap to will himself to remember what he was going to say, "does this.. happen often?" Bobby glanced back up, "you know, the midnight runs?"

"I already answered this question."

"Not truthfully," and Crowley looked somewhat surprised at the other's statement, but never made an attempt to correct him.

"Crowley," Bobby began, exhaling shortly, and placing the cold bowl by his feet because he felt ridiculous holding it and trying to have this conversation, "Look, you might have everyone else fooled that you're in tip top shape, but you ain't foolin' me," Crowley wasn't making an attempt to reach his eyes, and it was the first time Bobby noticed that often times he wouldn't when he would begin digging. Anytime he'd bring something up that at all related to something that might be out of shape with him, he can never reach his eyes, and Bobby wished he'd just stop and level with him for once.

Sometimes it felt like a barrier that Crowley put up to protect himself, but Bobby didn't know why he always put it up when he talks to him, or why he feels it necessary to hide. Not like he was ashamed of something, but more like he was worried to mess something up; maybe it was to mess this up, or even perhaps something else entirely, but Bobby had no way of knowing until Crowley reached his eyes.

Crowley always just had a hard time reaching his eyes.

There was a gentle puff of breath that slipped out of the Scotsman's lips, yet he was still quiet and still unresponsive, but he stopped eating and for a good moment, Bobby thought he wasn't going to respond at all. Crowley surprised him once he set his own bowl down by his feet and then hoisted his feet onto the couch and crossed his legs, Bobby followed with a curious gaze, and moved a little to give the other a little bit of space until the shorter man was facing him; but his eyes were on his hands sitting in his lap, and his lips were puckered somewhat in thought before licking his lower lip.

"You're right," he finally said, stretching out his fingers over his pajama bottoms before allowing them to curl in and rest on his knee's, "I think, if.. if we're going to do this. Then I should be.. to be completely clear, I should come clean," the statement sounded more directed to himself than to the hunter, but Bobby listened anyhow, "Robert, I haven't been completely honest with you, and I'm going to set a few facts straight."

Bobby didn't say anything, but nodded for the other to continue, pulling one of his own legs onto the couch and folding it in front of him so he could face the other a bit more directly. Crowley was chewing on his words, trying to map them out so nothing came out wrong or backwards; figuring that any sort of relationship shouldn't be built with lies concreting the foundation. And it'd be a shame for something to catch up with him that the other man didn't know about; it was better to come clean, than risk what ever it was that they had.

A relationship.

An actual relationship that didn't deserve any of his pettiness.

Crowley took in a sharp breath, "Do you remember," he began slowly, letting his eyes trail over the wooden floor boards of the hunters home, mapping out the fading and the scratches along the surface, "when I came here, after you had fixed my car, and we drank Craig in your kitchen?"

Bobby paused a second, nodding minimally; it had been the second time they've spoken face to face, a little over a year ago now. Feel's like an eternity away, now that he thinks about it. It was a nice chat, and the company had been pleasant.

Crowley nodded in return, "There are a few things I said to you back then, that weren't completely true, and I think you deserve the truth," he paused, "it's nothing..- it's nothing big, nothing life threatening, I didn't escape from some sort of mafia or have a target on my head," he squinted his eyes at the hunter, "just so you know. Much smaller things. S'actually a bit personal, and I can't believe I'm about to say any of it," with that said, with a bit of incredulous exasperation, he rubbed the palms of his hands against his face, before brushing his fingers through his hair then letting them drop back to his lap, "so I apologize ahead of time. I didn't know you very well back then, and I wasn't exactly.. willing to talk about certain things truthfully. Yet, back then, it didn't really occur to me that this-" Crowley gestured between the two of them, "might happen."

When Bobby still didn't say anything, Crowley made to take a deep breath, picking at the bottom of his pajama's before setting himself to start.

"I told you," Crowley began, licking his lips, "that my father was a tailor in Canisbay Scotland. That is not true," the Scotsman shifted before continuing, "honestly, I've no idea who that man is. I've personally never met him and my mother never spoke about him. Figured it was an accident, one night thing, and I was a product of carelessness," Crowley shifted in his seat, keeping his eyes lowered because he knew if he looked up now at whatever expression that hunter had on his face, it'd just throw him off and he was really trying to keep his thoughts in order.

"It was actually my Grandfather who ran the tailoring business, and my mother was a seamstress that worked under him. Both very religious, very manipulative, but loving none the less. My grandfather was the only father figure I had in my life, and he was a fairly poor one at that, but you can't simply pick and choose family, and I didn't have a great deal of options available to me at the time." Crowley shifted, "I did come to America for better opportunities, but not exactly in the light that I was shining it on."

Bobby raised his brow, but Crowley didn't see it, or rather ignored it and went on, "I did leave Scotland because I didn't want to join the family business, I can't stand being at someone else's foot and heel, and allowing these self righteous idiots that surrounded me to tell me what to do."

"When I was younger," he stated abruptly, "as I've mentioned before, I grew up in a very conservative and very God-fearing little town, and growing up my mother always knew I was a bit different from the rest of the children. Although it wasn't different, exactly, but rather something that didn't confirm to her norm. I was just a child at the time, and I just didn't see anything wrong. Least not in the way she did," Crowley cleared his throat once he realized his tone was growing soft, "the point is, as I've told you before, she would shove me into that church as if it were a cure for my, per say problem and although I never knew what she told the minister, he'd always pay close attention to me. Pick me away from other groups of people, and would sit me down for these long chats that I use to eat right up. Use to.. use to really believe that stuff, you know?" Bobby didn't know, not really anyways, but, again nodded none the less.

"So," he went on, "I'd listen and I'd listen, until I realized there were holes in his speech, trying to understand the things he said so clearly and without hesitation. It became repetitive, the things he would say would contradict another statement. Yet he was so sure of himself and what he was saying.. it sort of frightened me." Bobby resisted the urge to grab his hands, biting his tongue and forced himself to stay quiet, "It was that fear of letting the blind lead the blind, and I was tired of being blinded. He was a good man with good intentions, and it took me a long time to see that, but honestly; he was clueless."

"He didn't understand the vastness of what he claimed to believe, he didn't understand the words falling from his mouth. The repetitiveness never occurred to him, the controversy. It was one of the main things that forced me to shut out what he was saying, and forced me to shut out anyone who ever talked out of their ass about a subject they didn't understand. Taking advise from morons, or demands from people who didn't know what they were talking about. That's why I left." Bobby thought that maybe Crowley would glance up at him, but the man kept his eyes lowered, "I left because I was afraid I'd have to take orders my whole life, and in something so absurd and mundane and simple. Oh God it was so simple, I wanted nothing to do with it. I could do nothing and go nowhere while I was working a job that meant little to nothing to me. What a life well wasted."

"Your mother probably didn't see it that way," Bobby murmured, "with the job, I mean."

Crowley smiled faintly, "no, she didn't," he leaned back in his seat, "loves sewing, very good at it too. She could make a lovely gown within a few hours, but she preferred to make hats."

"Why hats?"

Crowley shrugged, "I've no idea, s'just a preference of her's, I suppose. She often times would use me as her dummy to try out anything new she made, to see whether or not she could sell it. She often times would scrap an idea, but with the few she kept- very elegant."

"And you came to America to avoid that?"

"It's her happy future and dream," Crowley finally glanced up at the hunter, "not mine."

The Scotsmen scooted a little closer to the hunter, feeling a bit more confident in himself as he wrapped his hands around the other's, dropping his eyes down to the hunters shirt, "besides, mother dearest and I haven't been on speaking terms since I left. She never agreed with my ah- provocative lifestyle, and had tried to guilt me into staying. It didn't work, of course, but she certainly tried."

"Why America?" Bobby found himself asking, "what's so great about here?"

Crowley didn't answer at first, his lips parting, "it's far away," he breathed, "far away from them, from her, the chapel. I.. I feel safer here," and he said it as if he couldn't believe he said it aloud, "funny enough, I feel safe from them, and their disappointment."

"Do you think they'd still be that way?" Bobby made a offhanded sound, "you know, seeing how far you've come?"

"It's funny you should ask," the Scotsman responded, "I found myself thinking about that same question a few months ago, if.. you know, if they'd be proud of what I am. And honestly? I don't think so- well, I don't think that they wouldn't be impressed, but in the same sense, I feel as if they wouldn't care that I had made these accomplishments, but rather that their bloodline did something, and their kin. Not me. Yet, if I'm going to be completely honest about this, I can't help but find it sad, and I can't help but realize I just don't care anymore."

Crowley squeezed Bobby's hands, running his thumbs gently over the other's knuckles, "I think it has to do with them simply admiring what I've done, but not who I am," and Crowley paused because he was honestly trying to find a better way to word that, "you see, I think they'd see me in a suit, and pat me on the shoulder, but the moment they saw me.. like this-" Crowley raised their hands slightly to emphasize what he was saying, "see me.. comfortable, per say, happy. They'd never approve, because I'm happy with another man, and to them, my choices are undesirable."

"So, I keep my achievements to myself," he looked up at the hunter one last time, tilting his head, "because I don't need their approval, and I don't need their love. I have everything in the world I could possibly want," there was a moment and a shift and Crowley had pushed himself forward onto his knee's, his hands sliding to wrap around the hunters shoulders, pressing a quick kiss against the others mouth, "and that includes you."

Bobby blinked up at him, a smile touching his lips as he reciprocated the action. There was another shift, and Crowley was seated by his hip, but his legs were draped over the hunters lap, and his back was pressed against the head of the couch. A sigh touched his lips and his hands snapped to his face where he began rubbing against the tension there.

He coughed as he dropped his hands to his lap and looked up at the hunter, "Alright, darling. Your turn."

Bobby raised his brow, "my turn for what?"

"Quid pro quo, dearest," Crowley crossed his arms lazily, "I gave you a little bit of myself, and now it's your turn to do the same."

The hunter looked at him carefully before shaking his head, "I've never been untruthful with you," yet he didn't sound accusing when he said it, but more along the lines of stating he wasn't sure what to tell him. Crowley brushed the comment off.

"No, but you've been withholding information, there's a difference."

"Clearly," Bobby sighed, "still doesn't tell me what you want to know."

Crowley paused, thinking something over before nodding his head gently, "how about we start with something small, and work our way up, yes?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I dropped a bit of a personal bomb shell, but that was simply just clearing the air. I want to know a bit more about yourself, and I want you to know a bit about me.. go back and forth, yes?" Bobby watched him with squinted, distrusting eyes, before Crowley rolled his own, "alright, alright, you don't have to answer anything you're uncomfortable with. You wanker."

"Better," Bobby relaxed back a bit, his lower back resting against the armrest, "so, you want to start?"

"Of course," he began, measuring the other out before parting his lips, "Why'd you never remarry?"

"Out of all the things you could have asked, and that was your take-away?"

"Answer the question."

The hunter sighed heavily, fighting the urge to rub the frustrations out of his own face, swallowing thickly with a huff, "I don't know, ah- I didn't want to?"

"Now, who's being the dishonest one?"

"S'not dishonest."

"It's not a full answer either," Crowley furrowed his brow, "C'mon love, it's a generic question, and I opened my heart out to you, the least you could do is roll up your sleeve."

Bobby groaned, but knew the other had a point. He also knew that he could stop at any time, and Crowley, most likely, wouldn't press, and for that he was grateful; but he was right, he did need to open up a bit. Swallowing down his own baggage wasn't good for either one of them, and- Bobby stopped.

"Ask a different question," he eventually muttered, and when Crowley raised his brow, Bobby brushed it off, "just- do me this one favour, and ask something else."

Crowley looked withdrawn, as if he'd opened up a can of worms he had no idea what to do with, but decided against pressing. "Alright," he shifted in his seat, keeping his eyes steady on the others face, obviously unsure of himself and obviously not ready to drop the subject; Bobby didn't doubt he'd bring it up again later, but for now he said nothing, "I suppose that means you're not going to answer me if I ask what's going on in the closet upstairs?"

Bobby blinked, "what the hell are you talking about?"

The hunter couldn't tell if Crowley looked sheepish or unsure, but decided it didn't matter when he overall looked apologetic when he began to speak, "When I was looking for those pajama pants you were talking about, I couldn't remember whether you had said dresser or closet. I personally keep a good variety in both places in my apartment, having mine folded on a top shelf in my closet, and on the lower in my own dresser, so.. naturally, I checked the dresser, and although I picked something out, I wanted to see if you had any other pairs that weren't in plaid or tartan, so I opened up the closet."

When Crowley didn't say anything for a moment, Bobby realized he was waiting for him to say something, but Bobby was trying to remember what would have been so strange for him to bring it up until it hit him.

"I didn't.. I didn't touch anything, if it makes you feel better," Crowley continued, once he noticed that Bobby wasn't responding, "Took me a moment to realize I probably shouldn't have been in there, but.. found it odd, I suppose. Closed it after a moment when I also realized I couldn't stop sneezing once I've unsettled all the dust."

Bobby was still quiet, and he knew it was making Crowley squirm because that look on his face suggested he believed he overstepped a boundary somewhere along the line, and didn't know how to fix it. It took a bit too long, perhaps, for him to realize he was taking his time to come up with some sort of response, but he just- he just didn't know what to say.

"I know," he said after an extended pause, and Crowley looked confused at him because he couldn't seem to decide what the other knew. "I know it's kinda, ah- kinda weird," Bobby was the one to shift this time, and the Scotsman adjusted his legs over him. There was a drawn out silence, where he wasn't sure where he was going, but Crowley was listening to him, much like Bobby had done before, and it gave him a bit of courage to say the one thing he hadn't been able to say to anybody; and not for lack of trying, but rather a lack of heart on his part to get the words out the way he wanted them to.

"It's probably unhealthy, and I know that," Bobby began with a low shrug, rubbing the back of his neck "but God she was my everything, and after I lost her I- I wasn't- I didn't know what to do with myself, and I-" he was losing track of his thoughts, and the hunter was having a hard time wording to the other in a way where he could understand; so that he could really get what he was trying to say. Bobby stopped talking, licking his lips as he brushed his hand over his jaw before starting once again.

"Did I ever tell you," he started again, "that my dad was an abusive man?" he looked towards Crowley who was quiet, looking at him with a sort of curiosity that allowed Bobby to find his barrings long enough to catch that the other was shaking his head, "angry bastard. Always had his hands in a fist, and a bone to pick with the world, but it wasn't so bad at first, you know?" He imagined maybe Crowley had some idea, but maybe he didn't, "when I was a little kid, he only shouted every now and again, but he wasn't so bad. My mom even seemed to like him, and things were fine, least til he began drinking, that is."

"I was around fifteen, maybe sixteen, and I had stolen some of his liquor. I can't remember to this day why I thought it was a good idea- I didn't even drink the stuff, but I think I thought that maybe if I hid it from him, he wouldn't even notice it was gone. Might even be sober for a few hours before running out and getting a new bottle, but that's not at all what went down." Bobby kept his eyes on the other's lap, where he watched Crowley idly messing with the strings of the pajama pants that he was wearing, and the little movement somewhat calmed the hunters erratic heartbeat.

"I remember him throwing shit, trying to find it when I left one morning. He'd just gotten back from work, when he finally found it, and I uh, I hadn't been home at the time, but when I got back from.. school, I think, I remember seeing my mom sitting quietly at the dinner table, and my father was sitting with that damn bottle in front of him, and some papers laying out on the table. They didn't say anything when I walked into the room, and I remember he uh- he pointed to the seat across from him, and told me to sit down."

"He told me he was ah- 'worried' about me," he breathed, "ah- well, long story short, he wanted to teach me a lesson for stealing his booze, and had created this elaborate story about me. Mind you, my old man was a respected guy back then, and I was his good for nothin' kid, so you can probably imagine how my word didn't mean much," Bobby coughed, "regardless, he told.. he got talkin' to some people about how I was a reckless kid, always out late and drinking with my friends, and since it was back in the late 80's, it wasn't uncommon for kids to be, y'know- kids. I never left the house, let alone went to parties but nobody was 'naive enough to listen to a kid. So, after all was said and done, he wanted to make sure I never laid a hand on his stuff again. So, he tossed me in a rehab center for a few months."

"He did what?"

"Yeah," Bobby breathed, glancing up from the others hands to look at the incredulous expression on Crowley's face, "you wouldn't even believe how many people my age were there, because some worried parent tossed them in. Most of which probably needed to be there, but over all? Great deal of normal kids with nothing wrong with them; probably took a few sips of some bad brandy and got tossed in while getting caught, because 'kids these days'."

Crowley opened his mouth a few times, before closing them repeatedly, "he tossed you into rehab," he began slowly, "because you hid his whiskey?"

Bobby nodded, and Crowley made an exasperated sound. "Did you.. did you tell anyone? What he did? Didn't they test you?"

The hunter shook his head, "Nah, no tests. Again, we were in a small town and this was still the 80's- they didn't feel the need to, and nobody would listen to me anyhow. Besides, it could have been worse. Which brings me to why I brought it up," Bobby cleared his throat, "you see, it was that night when I got home that he tossed me in, and Karen and I- we were close. Had known her since as long as I can remember - Called her almost every day, and we had made plans that weekend to go see this cheesy flick at the movies that had just come out. Can't remember the name of it for the life of me, but that's beside the point," Bobby waved his hand absently, " Anyways, she must have gotten worried or somethin', seeing as I hadn't gotten a hold of her for some time, so she drove down to my house when my dad was at work, and asked my mom where I was. She told her, and the night we were supposed to head down to see the movie, I heard a knock on my window- an' mind you, I was on the forth floor of this huge ass building."

There was a smile nudging at the corner of the Scotsman's mouth, hiding it behind the palm of his hand. A small laugh escaped Bobby's lips as he recalled the event, "Karen she.. she had, in the matter of two days, planned this break in, and had -somehow- convinced two of her friends to help her distract the guard up front- which, her friend ended up marrying a few years later- and another to drive her over as a sort of quick escape if things got a bit crazy. You should have seen her," he smiled, "she had found this- she found a ladder almost high enough to reach my floor, and had this bag of rocks by her hip to toss at my window so I could unlocked it and help her inside."

"She had been so furious at my dad for locking me up- and this is..- this is the kind of girl who was never late to class, never swore, never disobeyed orders. Very clean cut, loved to bake, and always got so lost in a book that she won't even realize you were talkin' to her unless you took the book away. I mean she was.. just a straight forward, good person. But she scaled the building, and broke in, and when I had asked her what the hell she thought she was doing, she looked me in the eye and told me that we weren't missing our movie night."

"That's insane," Crowley breathed, his expression almost unreadable, "how often- did she ever get caught?"

Bobby shook his head, "No, she didn't do it excessively for anyone to find out. Only when she could, but when she did, we'd often just- y'know, lay there and talk until she had to leave or until the sun almost came up. Sometimes she'd bring in things like magazines to keep me occupied." Bobby glanced over to his desk, his eyes falling on Rumsfeld who wasn't paying much attention to anything, "one time she brought a gallon of orange juice, but no cups with a bag of these almost stale chips, and another time it was two pens and a yearbook from our freshman year of high school."

"It's the little things, you know?" Bobby finally said, "Even though breaking into rehab to see me wasn't exactly a uh, little thing, but the point is she made the effort to see me," the hunter paused, pursuing his lips, "She used to pack two lunches for school because I never had lunch money and I never had anything to eat, or when I'd call her when things were getting bad at home and she'd show up ten or so minutes later with some sort of excuse of having to work on a project with me, even when we didn't have any classes together. Karen was-" he paused, chewing the inside of his cheek, "she- she made an effort for me, and nobody had ever made an effort for me."

"So.. the clothes," Crowley started slowly, "why you never remarried-"

"It's because I couldn't," Bobby admitted, and for the first time in twenty years, he was saying so out loud, "It's because I had never met someone who.. who would be willing to do the things she's done for me, or someone who I felt alright doing the things I've done for her." Karen had been his everything. She had held his hand through so many years and so many fights, that losing her had been the most devastating thing he had ever felt, and he didn't need to voice that aloud for Crowley to understand what he was saying. Bobby knew that moving on was easier said than done; and he knew, to his absolute core, that he'd never be over her.

But that didn't mean he couldn't make room for someone else.

And on some level, he figured Crowley knew that.

"What about you?" Bobby asked, leaning his head back, "have you ever had someone like that?"

"Do you mean have I ever had someone willing to break into rehab to see me?" Crowley chuckled, shaking his head, "honestly? No. I've never really, uhm.." he licked his lips, "I've never really been in love before. Not in the way you have, at least."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I've fallen in love with the idea of being in love, but I've never had that White Picket Fence of a person. I've had flings, and drunken nights, but never someone steady. Never really a real relationship."

Bobby looked at him with a bit of offhanded confusion, before realization dawned on him, "I'm your first..-" he didn't really need to finish the sentence to see the slight tint of red against the others cheeks.

"You're my first," the other admitted quietly, averting his eyes to the wooden floor boards, "the first real one anyways." First one that wasn't in it for sex or for money, first one who was in it for him and not what he has to offer.

Bobby made a thoughtful sound, and Crowley couldn't help but look up and figure out why, at least until he felt the other's hand stop his own from fiddling with his pant strings and held them instead, "Well, that makes two of us then," Crowley watched the others fingers as the hunter was the one to initiate them interlacing for what seemed to be the first time since all this sort of began, "I haven't been with anyone in a little over twenty years, and you haven't really been with anyone ever," the hunter chuckled, "means we're both pretty clueless on what we're supposed to do."

"Our best," Crowley responded, "and we'll make it work. Doesn't seem too hard."

"No, but it's effort you've got to be willing to give or else it's not really worth being a part of," the hunter admitted, "but I think we'll do alright."

There was a small, comfortable pause, where they sat there unmoving; both had their eyes lowered to their hands, until Crowley broke away and pulled at the blankets hanging over the back of the couch, bringing it down with a tug to cover his shoulders before spreading out the wing and draping it over the hunter's shoulder as well. "So," he began, "just to be clear here, we're in a relationship, aren't we?"

Bobby snorted, "what? You want an official declaration?"

"I want confirmation, but I have nothing against you getting down on one knee with doves flying out of your ball cap if that helps."

The hunter shot him a dry look, biting back a laugh and down turned his eyes like before. It was almost as if he was contemplating, and perhaps he was, but it was short lived and soon Bobby simply nodded, "Yeah, I think that's what's happening."

Crowley was the one to snort this time, "you think?"

"I'm almost positive."

"You've got to do better than that."

Bobby groaned, "I don't think there's a better way to say it," he mumbled, waving his hand around in small circles, "ain't one of us supposed to ah- ask?"

Crowley shook his head faintly, "Not at our age- er, not really, anyways. That's something usually reserved for the beautiful youths," he leaned over a little, crossing his legs at the ankle still draped over the hunters lap, who tilted his head at the man.

"Then what's that make us?"

"We are the product of a terrible breed of humans, you and I," the Scotsman replied, "we are the ugly souls that remain after everyone's packed up at the end of the day and gone home."

Crowley had a distinctive tired look in his eye as he spoke, like it's something he's thought about a million times, and yet still doesn't quite completely understand what it means or what it could possible mean for the two of them. What that makes them, in this large unfortunate planet they live in. It was comfortingly vague in a way where it wasn't definitive nor was it directive; it was open ended in a way that suggested that, although they were ugly souls, they were ugly souls that drifted away from everyone else, and perhaps that means something remotely good in foresight, perhaps it doesn't.

Perhaps it didn't matter.

Bobby made a thoughtful sound, before dropping his rough hand to the others knee, brushing his thumb absently against the fabric, "Ugly ain't so bad."

"No," Crowley chuckled, letting his hand fall from their resting place against his lap, and onto the front of the hunters shirt; fingers moving deftly over imaginary specs of dirt, picking at the fabric, "not really."

Neither one of them could pin point exactly how long they chatted; not with Crowley's legs lying over the hunters, with his hand sitting comfortable on the other mans knee, or with the blanket covering their shoulders and draping over the edge of the couch; and certainly not with Bobby asking questions about the other's tattoo's, or even with the other's cry of distress once he realized his ice cream had melted.

The soft blue hue of the coming rising sun reminded them that they hadn't slept much that night, and once the hunters window was illuminated in a golden glow, Bobby realized he didn't feel all that tired to begin with. Somehow, during their long conversation, they didn't feel the time as it slipped away from them, even when their speech became a bit hazy, and the blankets started getting tangle up among lazy limbs and bodies.

"What time is it?" Crowley asked, his head having taken rest on the hunters shoulder and chest, somewhat smushing his cheek; the found themselves lying down this time around, or mostly lying anyways. Bobby was still propped somewhat upright with his back against the armrest, while Crowley had taken the initiative to lay on him; half of his body resting on the couch, while the other half was pressed against the hunter's side, who didn't seem to mind.

Bobby made a humming noise; glancing down at his watch, he winced, "It's eight in the morning," he sighed, bringing one of his hands to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"M'sorry," Crowley muttered, adjusting himself so his hand tucked under the hunters body comfortably as a yawn touched his lips.

"What for?" Bobby murmured back, laxly stretching out his arm that wasn't being laid on by a grown man.

"Keepin' you up all night," he replied, "I know I have problems sleeping sometimes, but I really shouldn't be putting it off on you."

Bobby chuckled, "trust me, you ain't doing anything to me that I haven't already done to myself," he didn't have the best sleeping schedule either, so really, this was nothing, "and me and you gotta talk about you apologizin' all the time," he said with a hum, turning his head to look down at the man, but was only greeted by his soft tuffs of hair against his cheek, "I'm the last person you should ever apologize to..- 'specially when you haven't done anythin'."

"Sorry," the Scotsman said again, "S'old habit."

"Well, as my first decree as your new.. er-"

"Partner," Crowley hummed pleasantly, his voice low and sounding almost like a purr.

"Yeah," the hunter snapped his finger, "that. And as my first decree, I'm going to help you break that habit, alright?"

Crowley smiled lucidly, "what ever for? Is my politeness killing you, love?"

"Course not," the hunter grumbled, "course not..- just, ah, you just say it when you don't have to. Back at the market, you apologized for pulling me out of bed, y'know? I don't want you to feel sorry for.. for imposin' on me, alright? It's give and take at this point, and I have no problem with you being the taker, if that wasn't already clear."

"But I'm always taking from you," and Crowley sounded nearly disappointed, "I imagine you'll get sick of it soon enough."

"Don't be an idjit," Bobby snapped, although there was a lack of venom behind it, "if I remember correctly, it was you who brought that fancy drink of yours over here as repayment back when I first fixed your car, and it was you who took action back at the library, and at the Christmas party. It was also you who called me up first, and made me dinner a few times in counting. So, honestly? I think you give plenty."

"Say's you," that being said, Bobby felt a light shift on his side, "how about we go get breakfast, and I pay this time?" the hunter glanced downwards a ways to see Crowley propped up slightly to look at him, "then the next time, you can if you want. Sort of like taking turns, so no one person is being er- bled dry," he smiled, "do we have a deal?"

The hunter eyed him a moment before nodding, "yeah, deal."

Crowley watched him with an amused expression, making to sit a bit more upright; he scooted his position so he straddling the hunters hips, his face a few inches away, voice low once he began to speak, "Want to hear something interesting, love?"

Bobby watched him with interest, his eyes flickering down to the others lips, without his consent, for only a moment, his gaze lifting to find a smirk in the others eyes, "Ah," he breathed, "ah, yeah, sure-"

"Did you know," Crowley began, lifting his hands to brush along the hunter's sides until they settled at his chest, "that in ancient Rome, in order for deal to be sealed, as a legal bond per say, was for the recipients to seal it with a kiss?"

A small smile broke over the hunters face, so that's what this was about, "really, now?"

"Mh hm," Crowley hummed, his nose brushing over the hunter's, "that's also why kissing the bride, or significant other, comes into play during weddings. It was seen as a form of contract being signed, and so, they kiss."

Bobby's hands slid down from their resting place on the other's back, down to his legs and falling to the crook of the others knees, "Is that a suggestion?"

"More of an offer," the Scotsman smiled, bringing his hands up to slip along the underside of Bobby's jaw, his fingers finding a comfortable resting place just behind the base of his neck, and slipping through his hair.

Bobby chuckled, "do you make this offer to all your clients?"

Crowley brushed his lips over the other man's, just a breath away, "No," he hummed, his voice soft and heavy, "just the one," before dropping his head those last few spaces until their lips were touching, and Bobby couldn't help but begin to find the feeling warmly familiar.

Familiar, but the hunter wasn't sure he'd ever get used to it. He didn't think he'd ever get used to the way his pulse speeds up and makes his arms and hands feel shaky, or how his chest fills with a fluttering sort of heat and he has to remind himself to breathe. He didn't think he'd grow accustom to the other's strong jaw or his soft lips and smooth face brushing and locking with his, or even how his hands would cradle his head or neck as if he couldn't risk him slipping through his fingers.

The dance was familiar, the hunter thought absently, but it was the steps that were different.

Honestly, he wished he minded more, but he didn't.

Crowley's tongue brushed, his lips parting and pressing and meshing, with his hands like feathers and his grip a little soft and Bobby became painfully aware of how Crowley was over him, and how his breath hitched and hips swayed- at least until he pulled away. Bobby felt warm hands brush over his cheeks, and it took him a moment to realize that his eyes had fluttered shut until he forced them to open; greeted by the other's warm steady stare, open and bright. His eyes were close enough, that Bobby could even see the colour - they were the greyest green, laced in gold and for some indistinguishable time, they were quiet.

At least until Crowley cleared his throat.

"So," he started, his voice a little rough as his tongue brushed over his lower lip absently, "breakfast?"

Bobby hummed, nodding as he pushed to his elbows and the two of them untangled themselves from the blankets. "Where do you wanna go?" the hunter asked, making to stand. Crowley looked after him, still seated on the couch, while the hunter adjusted his pajama's on his hips, picking at the elastic band.

"Where'd you take me to a few days ago?"

Bobby paused, "Uh, Conner's Diner," not a bad choice, "I think they make breakfast in the morning."

"Of course the do, they're a diner," Crowley pushed to his feet, "you mind stopping back at my apartment before we get there?"

"Sure," Bobby shrugged, "did you forget something?"

"Yes, I need something to wear."

"What you're wearing isn't good enough?"

"Really, Robert?" Crowley scrunched up his nose in distaste, "you might be perfectly content looking like a heathen in public, but I have standards and an image to uphold."

"What? You walked outside like that last night."

"Yes, but it was three in the morning. What are the chances anyone I knew was going to see me?"

Bobby pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth, narrowing his eyes at the man, "well, what are the chances now?"

"Higher than before, that's what."

"Well you're not wearing a suit to breakfast." Bobby stated crossly, to which the other rolled his eyes.

"I didn't say that, love. I simply stated that I needed something to wear," he pushed himself so he was sitting closer to the edge of the couch, "so run along and get dressed, then we'll head out?"

"Alright," Bobby hummed, "I'll be right back."

Crowley said nothing as the hunter disappeared up the stairs, and once the Scotsman was out of sight, he made quick work of heading to the washroom to sort of freshen up a bit. Combing through his unruly hair with his fingers; he brushed his teeth and splashed water over his face, making the quick decision to snag his cap once he was already heading back to his room.

Clothes were scattered about, yet Crowley's suit was still folded up by the end of the bed, although Bobby paid them little mind, as he set forward to scavenge through his dresser drawers. He grabbed some jeans and a shirt, hastily swapping outfits, and pulling them on. Pausing by the door of his bedroom, he looked back at his room; his clothes really were everywhere.

There was a moment where he was drawn between just heading downstairs and leaving, or straightening up- he almost said screw it and left, but he also remembered that if Crowley had stayed here last night, although briefly in his bed, whose to say he won't stay again? He doesn't clean up much after himself, but perhaps he could sacrifice a few minutes and just fix the place up.

With a sigh he stepped back, grabbing the few opened and scattered books along the side of his bed, and placing them back on the shelf on the far right of the room. Bobby grabbed the ties he had lying in a heap upon the shelf and slipped them into his upper drawer. The hunter didn't bother making his bed, figuring it wouldn't make much a difference, seeing as he'd only mess it up again, but he grabbed all of his fallen dirty clothes, piling them up into their own heap and gathered them in his arms; letting them drop into a basket off to the far right of the room to deal with later.

Bobby eyed the room down from the doorway one last time, giving the place a once over until he was satisfied with the results for the most part. Shutting off the lights as he left.

When he walked down the last of the steps, he saw Rumsfeld sitting with his head raised and resting on Crowley's lap, his tail wagging with the Scotsman's fingers brushing over the fur of his head and to his ears. However, Crowley's attention wasn't on him, but rather on the TV that Bobby hadn't heard turn on while he was upstairs. The hunter glanced between him and the set, before letting his eyes fall to whatever it was his attention was on.

It was the New's channel, and a woman was on the screen. Reporting something Bobby had missed the story on while he was away, yet there was a switch and someone was outside and talking to a taller man that looked somewhat familiar to him. His eyes were sunken in, and his cheeks looked hollow and his shoulders were stiff, but the most notable thing about him was his eyes, and how.. yellow they were.

Crowley was staring at the television intensely, but his eyes looked dull, and his brows were tense.

"What's going on?" Bobby had asked, but Crowley silenced him with a wave of his hand, patting the seat next to him for Bobby to sit, but the hunter didn't move. Instead his eyes had fallen onto the screen once again, with the volume so low that he couldn't quite make out what was being said from where he was standing, but Crowley didn't seem to mind the near lack of noise; mostly because he probably couldn't find the remote to turn it up, and figured he could do without.

His eyes dropped to the bowls by Crowley's feet, and made a soft sound. They'd forgotten about the ice cream while talking, it seemed; without a sound, he picked them up and quickly moved out of Crowley's vision, walking off towards the kitchen and dumping the remains down the sink.

There was a thump and a click and the living room grew silent once again, and once Bobby turned around, he saw Crowley standing there in the doorway. Bobby could see Rumsfeld trotting off from his spot, and slipping behind his desk; presumably for the spot under the desk where he always seemed to sleep.

Crowley's face looked unfocused and dim when he walked into the room, his expression was tense and borderline uncomfortable. Bobby gave him a concerned look, but the Scotsman shook his head.

"We're not going to worry about anything today," Crowley said with a small gesture of his hand, but his gaze stayed lowered, "we're going to have breakfast, and waste the day, and we're not going to let trivial matters get to us. Not today."

Bobby gave him a careful look, stepping forward, "Alright, not today," he replied, "but I've always got ears for tomorrow."

Crowley looked up at him when a gentle smile touched his lips, "thank you."

"Don't mention it," Bobby made a nonchalant gesture before making to slip on his shoes, with Crowley moments behind him. They left in a blur of motions, filled with mutters of the cold and how the sun was a bit too bright, but they slipped into their chilled seats and Crowley made a comment about perhaps getting a new radio for his car.

"S'rather quiet," he murmured, "doesn't that ever get tiresome?"

"No," because he honestly liked the sound of his tires against the gravel, and he liked the hum of the engine that wasn't cut out by excess noise to distract him. Sometimes, when his head hurts and the days aren't going the way they should, sometimes he feels like there should be something to fill the silence, yet most of the time, he didn't really mind. He didn't mind it if he could hear every word the man in his passenger seat was saying, and didn't mind if he could hear every sigh and little sound that he was slowly but surely growing accustomed to hearing; and Bobby never thought he'd prefer someones voice to just about anything else, "not really."


"Do you remember? Back when Crowley was just a business man and my chapters were poor in quality?" I'm excited to finish this story (which, still, won't before for some time-) so I can go back and add a crazy amount of editing for the first few chapters like what the hell, why did any of you keep reading.

I'm ridiculously weak when it comes to domesticity, and, as you can see, it's a bit of an annoyingly ongoing theme I've got going on. (That and the fact there isn't a lot we knew about Karen, so I really like messing around with who she was as a person) I hope it makes up for those of you who've read my new(ish) Reincarnation fanfiction; that, and I've always strongly believed that Crowley would be an insomniac stress eater if he were human (among other things) so that's exactly what I'm going to make him out to be. Also, healthy relationships are healthy, and good for the soul as well as insomniatic stress eaters. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. ^^