Crowley watches for a moment as shovel-hands attempt the devious plot of breaking the child seam, fumbling it several times before the bottle drops to the floor, rolling listlessly under the counter.
Sam shoulders slump, he really cuts such a pathetic figure, like that documentary Crowley watched, one non-apocalyptic afternoon, about baby Elephants.
“You can’t handle a bottle of Cough Syrup yet you want me to allow you to crack open the back gate to Purgatory?” Crowley raises an imperious eyebrow, “Call me when you can stand straight.”
He turns to leave, perhaps to find some poor sods soul to deal, or maybe see if that Elephant documentary is on again. Then there’s a weight bouncing into his side. “No wait!”
Sam collides with his side, his hand clumsily grabbing at his thousand dollar suit. Crowley looks at the attachment with a sneer, thinking of his dry cleaning bill.
“I’m fine I swear. We can do it today, it has to be today.”
The hunter looks worse close up, his eyes wide and glassy, the large bruises under his eyes melding with the flushed skin of his cheeks.
“I’m sorry to state the obvious Moose but you are not ‘fine’. You are germ ridden and a liability. If you go anywhere today but a bed you’ll get yourself killed.”
“Didn’t know you cared?”
“About you? No. About me? Oh yes. And if I am forced into assistance by a half giant I would appreciate a half giant that can shoot straight and recite enochian without…” he looks down at his suit, absently wiping at the remaining snot splashes in repulsion, “…interruptions.”
Sam’s snort turns into another coughing fit that doesn’t seem to want to end, listing fully, muffling his coughs into Crowley’s silk shirt. That’s Crowley’s limit right there. He shoves, none to gently, the quivering mass towards the bed.
Sam falls backwards with an ‘umph’ and almost immediately turns his face to groan weakly into the pillow.
This; these ridiculous weaknesses, is why Crowley hates lowering himself to work /with/ humans.
A weak tug, this time on his trouser leg, stops his second attempt at flee. “Please”
Ah, these are those ‘Puppy Dog Eyes’ Crowley has heard countless Angels and Demons complain about, in various stages of bemusement and irritation. Crowley just scowls.
“Please… Dean - we have to go get him.”
Crowley very purposefully removes the offending appendage from his person, brushing a hand down the pleat of his trousers.
“Purgatory will be there tomorrow, and the day after, and the next. Every day until the end of time. We have one shot at this and I am not losing my bid for Purgatory because of your co-dependency issues.”
Sam’s whole body slumps then and he lets out a very suspicious sniffle into the pillows. That’s most definitely Crowley’s cue to leave.
When he gets to the door he opens it, the fresh(ish) air rushing into the musty room, he takes a step forward, to freedom his mind overzealously exclaims. And then stops. And looks up.
And let’s out a very heartfelt groan.
“A devils trap! Really?”
A loud snore responds to him, he swirls back to find his captor fast asleep, face squished out of shape in the old mattress.
“Sam!” he barks, striding over to the slumbering Neanderthal and shoving at his meaty shoulder, “Let me out of here. Sam!”
Sam squirms and swats absently and Crowley’s rough touch “Mph. Lee’me ‘lone De’” and then rolls over and lets out a sound akin to a very large hibernating bear.
After that no moment of poking, prodding and yelling elicits even a stir.
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An Unlikely Partnership Part 2
Date: 2012-05-26 07:54 pm (UTC)Sam shoulders slump, he really cuts such a pathetic figure, like that documentary Crowley watched, one non-apocalyptic afternoon, about baby Elephants.
“You can’t handle a bottle of Cough Syrup yet you want me to allow you to crack open the back gate to Purgatory?” Crowley raises an imperious eyebrow, “Call me when you can stand straight.”
He turns to leave, perhaps to find some poor sods soul to deal, or maybe see if that Elephant documentary is on again. Then there’s a weight bouncing into his side.
“No wait!”
Sam collides with his side, his hand clumsily grabbing at his thousand dollar suit. Crowley looks at the attachment with a sneer, thinking of his dry cleaning bill.
“I’m fine I swear. We can do it today, it has to be today.”
The hunter looks worse close up, his eyes wide and glassy, the large bruises under his eyes melding with the flushed skin of his cheeks.
“I’m sorry to state the obvious Moose but you are not ‘fine’. You are germ ridden and a liability. If you go anywhere today but a bed you’ll get yourself killed.”
“Didn’t know you cared?”
“About you? No. About me? Oh yes. And if I am forced into assistance by a half giant I would appreciate a half giant that can shoot straight and recite enochian without…” he looks down at his suit, absently wiping at the remaining snot splashes in repulsion, “…interruptions.”
Sam’s snort turns into another coughing fit that doesn’t seem to want to end, listing fully, muffling his coughs into Crowley’s silk shirt. That’s Crowley’s limit right there. He shoves, none to gently, the quivering mass towards the bed.
Sam falls backwards with an ‘umph’ and almost immediately turns his face to groan weakly into the pillow.
This; these ridiculous weaknesses, is why Crowley hates lowering himself to work /with/ humans.
A weak tug, this time on his trouser leg, stops his second attempt at flee. “Please”
Ah, these are those ‘Puppy Dog Eyes’ Crowley has heard countless Angels and Demons complain about, in various stages of bemusement and irritation. Crowley just scowls.
“Please… Dean - we have to go get him.”
Crowley very purposefully removes the offending appendage from his person, brushing a hand down the pleat of his trousers.
“Purgatory will be there tomorrow, and the day after, and the next. Every day until the end of time. We have one shot at this and I am not losing my bid for Purgatory because of your co-dependency issues.”
Sam’s whole body slumps then and he lets out a very suspicious sniffle into the pillows. That’s most definitely Crowley’s cue to leave.
When he gets to the door he opens it, the fresh(ish) air rushing into the musty room, he takes a step forward, to freedom his mind overzealously exclaims. And then stops. And looks up.
And let’s out a very heartfelt groan.
“A devils trap! Really?”
A loud snore responds to him, he swirls back to find his captor fast asleep, face squished out of shape in the old mattress.
“Sam!” he barks, striding over to the slumbering Neanderthal and shoving at his meaty shoulder, “Let me out of here. Sam!”
Sam squirms and swats absently and Crowley’s rough touch “Mph. Lee’me ‘lone De’” and then rolls over and lets out a sound akin to a very large hibernating bear.
After that no moment of poking, prodding and yelling elicits even a stir.