Work Text:
Bobby is working on a rusty blue 1988 Ford Bronco out in the lot, a shotgun full of blessed salt resting in the front seat. He's listening to a classic rock station and whistling along to the tune. “One way or another, I'm gonna win ya', I'm gonna get ya', get ya', get ya', get ya'…”
Crowley has been watching undetected from his hellish office space, twirling in his goat leather desk chair. Ever since he had kissed him, he just hasn't been able to stop thinking about Robert. He believes that it may be fate that had brought them together, or perhaps one of those insipid cupids. He speculates that, what with Bobby's line of work, age, and dietary habits, he should die within a couple of years, ten at most. Where will he go when he dies, will Bobby go to hell, to him? Surely he had committed enough sins, caused the deaths of enough monsters and people alike… and there was the fact he had worked with Crowley on multiple occasions, however begrudgingly.
Once again Bobby is taking some time to read old texts, probably in Latin. This one looks like it's describing a prophecy that has something to do with triangles and nightmare dimensions, regular stuff.
Crowley is watching again, taking in the contented look on his face, so different from the grumpy front he usually puts on around others.
Bobby is sitting on his porch after a day of fighting monsters and junk, sipping tea that may or may not be spiked with whiskey, and listening to the crickets and birds while the sun sets. The light shines on the glass and the condensation of it. Crowley materializes into the chair next to him, scotch in hand. Instead of the normal black suit, on top of the dress pants is a t shirt. It says in shiny lettering NOT TODAY SATAN. Bobby startles, then grumbles “Ironic t shirts, is that what you're doing now? Can't see how that helps the whole goth magician theme you had going.”
Crowley looks around. “This place is unsightly. How does your homeowners association allow this?”
“I mow.”
“This garden is a disgrace.”
“Don't have time to plant no pretty flowers, ya stupid demon.”
“Come now, a bit of color would brighten this sad little dirt patch right up.”
Bobby starts to say something else, but Crowley teleports away. Finally, some peace and quiet. He picks up a book nearby. Crowley teleports back with hanger ferns and hooks them onto the roof ledge. “Crowley what in…!” He teleports away again. About ten minutes later he returns with a shopping cart of plants and flowers. “Crowley, put those back cause I ain't planting ‘em.”
“Hmmmm. I could get underlings to do that, but then it wouldn't take as long, ergo less time with you, darling.”
He scowls. “You cannot be serious.”
He picks up a trowel, which had apparently also been packed into the cart. “I'm a serious demon!” He begins to lift and set down the plants on the yard. “This is Devil's Snare. Manchineel tree sapling. Cannabis. Chilean Puya. Corpse Flower. Snapdragon. Voodoo Lily. Devil's Hands. Brugmansia sapling. And of course, Demon orchid.”
“You made that up.”
“No, I'm afraid Telipogon diabolicus is quite real.”
“You're ridiculous.
“You are ridiculous for not utilizing this space. Luckily it looks like the soil here is fertile, no need to add nitrogen pellets.”
“Ok then, well thanks for nothing, ‘cause even if you do plant these, you know they'll just end up dead here, right? I've not got what you'd call a green thumb.”
“Oh hush, don't worry about the mysterious future.” He smirks, thinking of how he'll have to come back to water and weed, and coincidentally see his favorite human again each time.