Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's not a place he'd ever have thought he'd wind up, tucked close to a demon's chest with a bullet in his gut while other demons popped like water balloons dropped on concrete. Of all the ways to go, this wasn't too bad. Didn't hurt much anymore, he'd nailed a few of the slimy little bastards. And having King Slimy Bastard suddenly show up to fight by his side had helped a hell of a lot.

Still, Bobby Singer was only human, and a gut shot was a gut shot.

"You stupid, stupid little-" Crowley was muttering under his breath, sweating hard through what had to have been a silk shirt. "-idiot fucking bastard..."

Bobby could only muster a grunt as he grabbed the demon's arm.

"Hold still," Crowley ordered, pressing a hand to the wound, "or so help me if you bleed out and die I'll bring you back just to kill you again."

Bobby held still.

Slowly, itchingly, the wound began to stitch together. There was no stranger sensation than feeling one's intestines grow back and slither into place, the old hunter noted, and he wasn't sure how to feel about it.

"Deep breaths," the demon soothed. "Everything is okay. And if your handwriting wasn't so atrocious, that protective sigil would have worked. I'm never letting you write anything important again."

"Gee, thanks," Bobby growled, feeling his liver crawl back to its proper place. "You're such a pal."

He attempted to stand, but was stopped by Crowley's surprisingly strong grip.

"Not yet. You're not done."

It took a few minutes, but the wound healed without so much as a freckle out of place. He spent the time listening to Crowley bitching and moaning about his shortcomings as a hunter, how he shouldn't even be doing this at his age, how he was for all intents and purposes past his prime and clearly shouldn't be out hunting alone anymore.

Hell, he thought with a faint smile, it almost sounded like Crowley cared.

Chapter Text

You're fucking kidding me, Bobby thought, and swore as he spat into the dirt and filth beside the car.

She'd been a looker in her younger years, all chrome and tailfins and two-tone paint, that turquoise you never saw outside of an old diner and the soft creamy white that cars these days never managed to pull off despite their best efforts. Now her tattered ragtop flagged in the wind on its wire skeleton, the chrome was all but rusted to death and her paint only showed in the faintest of spots; the rest had all been rusted or sandblasted or sun-bleached off.

She still stank of pond scum. That's where the kid down the road had found her, half-sunk into the Peterson's cow pond down at the far end of their pasture. Nineteen fifty-eight, an Edsel Citation, considered a butterface in her youth but the years had changed that to a handsome sort of beauty that only the rust marred.

He was an idiot for taking it, he was certain. Even dumber for shelling out two hundred bucks for the pleasure of having her rotten ass sit in his yard. The kid had worked on her a little, wanted to get her all done up for prom, but he was a broke dumbfuck sixteen year old and lost interest after the first week when his girlfriend dumped him. He'd hauled down to Singer Salvage, looking for a little cash in his pocket to show his new girlie a good time, and Bobby'd taken pity on the kid. After all, he'd shoveled Bobby's walk a few times when the winter hit hard, and hadn't batted an eye when he'd hauled out at least a dinner's worth of bottle and can refunds for recycling.

So now Bobby had this Edsel on his hands, one of the lemons to end all lemons, and some itchy little bastard voice from behind his left eyeball was telling him to fix her up instead of try and get his money back in scrap metal.

"Shit," he breathed, taking off his cap and running his hand through his slightly thinning hair. "Shit," he muttered again, stalking around the heap of tetanus gracing his lawn.

Fixed up, she'd put that Impala to shame, the voice niggled. When was the last time you had something nice, Bobby?

He stood in front of her, taking in the surpised "O" of her front grille and the shocked expression in her headlights, like someone had just up and stuck a thumb up her ass without so much as a howdy-do.

Yeah, he was an idiot, he decided as he headed into the garage to haul out some tools and get her insides on the outsides and cure what ailed her.

---

The engine and interior were a crapshoot, nothing worth saving, and her axles were all locked up with rust. He'd discovered a yellowjacket nest in her glovebox the hard way, too. The old bitch, as he was starting to think of her, wasn't gonna make this an easy fix. Still, the body and frame were surprisingly solid, and he had more than enough Bond-o to patch the holes that water had eaten through. First, though, knocking out the dents.

He'd been hammering out a particularly stubborn spot when he smelled the dull ick of brimstone and cologne.

"Nice car," Crowley purred, and suddenly that evil little voice that had nagged him earlier fell into place.

"You son of a bitch," came the snarl as Bobby came up with a haymaker, gunning for Crowley's smug bastard face.

The face in question was a foot and a half to the right, suddenly, and only a few inches from Bobby's own. The punch died quiet before the follow-through, and Bobby found himself with his arm draped over Crowley's shoulder.

The demon smirked, pressing a little closer. "Come on, now. You do deserve a pretty little thing in your life, hmm?"

"A damn Edsel?!" Bobby's breath huffed out, all hops and cheap liquor and the roast beef sandwich he'd had for lunch. Crowley didn't seem to mind.

"It was the best I could do, considering. They have their charms." One arm slid around Bobby's waist. "So are you going to thank me?"

"You gonna magic up an engine worth stickin' in this sorry sack of shit?" It came out shee-it, Bobby's drawl grown thick with the alcohol in his system, the deep sense of self-righteous fury, and the proximity to that rat-bastard whose brains he sometimes screwed out on a slow weekend.

"That would be cheating."

"Like it'd bother you of all people."

"You have a point." Crowley sighed, a little overdramatic. "But that'd take all the fun out of it. You'd have to give me something of equal or greater value..."

Bobby snorted. "This your fancy way of angling for a blowjob?"

"Bobby Singer, I would never... why, are you offering?"

If the demon was any closer he'd have been crawling into Bobby's skin and wearing him as a puppet. Bobby grinned, feeling slightly smug that something that powerful was that eager to give it up for him and be putty in his hands for something as simple as a cocksucking- felt like an accomplishment.

"Might could be," he grunted, pokerfaced. "But only for the best engine you can summon up. My knees ain't what they used to be."

"She'll purr like a kitten by sundown," was the quick reply. Crowley was already fumbling for his belt. "And you're a conniving ass."

"Can't say as I had a bad teacher for that," Bobby pointed out. "C'mon, backyard. Not gonna risk someone seein' us out front."

---

The sex had been quick and dirty and enthusiastic- Crowley had a hard time keeping his hands off the old, hard, scarred muscle and sinew of Bobby's body, and Bobby was all too happy to defile the hell out of that pristine little manscaped bastard the demon wore.

"Son of a bitch," Bobby groaned. "Think I fucked up my back."

"Hn," was Crowley's reply as they lay in the back of an old van that had at one point been someone's Shaggin' Wagon, though the mattress and shag carpet had gone to shit years ago. Both were naked, Bobby feeling pleasantly bruised save for the angry zings going up and down his spine, Crowley as tidy and unmarked as ever.

"So why an Edsel?"

"I like them," he shrugged, head lolling back.

"Hm." Bobby glanced over at the King of Hell. "Really?"

"They don't take themselves seriously."

That apparently satisfied the old hunter, because he lay there in relative silence until the twinges in his back became unbearable.

"Well, it's been fun, but I gotta get back to work." He slowly sat up, wincing. "If you're gonna have your little dream car, I better get crackin' on it."

"Engine's hiding in the old hearse," Crowley murmured, waving a hand, still slightly dazed. "Just lift her out and move her over when you're ready."

"Mm. Thanks. You see where my pants got to?"

"Out on the fence."

"Nngh."

Slowly, Bobby hauled himself to his feet and limped toward the house, muttering under his breath about sonsabitches and stupid cars as Crowley lay smugly in the van.

This was worth all the cat-and-mouse, he thought as he watched the hunter go.

Chapter Text

Three AM, and he’d been up all night researching some fucking dumbassed piece of shit god damned cryptid legend thing that wound up being a fucking dumbassed piece of shit god damned internet tulpa thing, and Bobby was tired.  Bobby was so, so tired.

Bobby was always tired these days, and he was fucking tired of being tired.

Off went the reading glasses as he rubbed his eyes.  Of course it had to be something nigh-unkillable.  Of course he was going to have to reg a million fucking accounts on a million fucking forums and spread rumors that no, you could totally kill Slenderman with a sneeze or something else stupid and easy.  Of fucking course.

At least it wasn’t like the ugliness with the bronies.  That one had been regrettable as hell, and he still had nightmares of plugging god damn Pinkie Pie (that thing had been horrifying when made flesh) and splattering her sparkly little brains all over some sad, unwashed virgin’s wall.  Honestly, he was more surprised that Slenderman took this long to manifest, considering everyone’s obsession with the thing these days.

He groaned and slowly, creakily rose to his feet, half-stumbling to the couch.  There was no way in hell he was making it upstairs tonight, he was certain.  The most he could hope for was that maybe that one sprung spring in the left cushion wouldn’t cut him so bad tonight.  And maybe, just maybe, he’d left the blanket down here from last time.

Bobby collapsed down onto the ratty old sofa and groaned.  Maybe someday he’d head over to the local Goodwill, see what he could haul out that maybe wasn’t half-collapsed, maybe something with only a couple of cigarette burns.  Nothing that couldn’t be covered up with a cheap slipcover.  He chuckled at the thought.  God, slipcovers.  Karen had insisted all their furniture match when they first got married, had compromised on getting things mostly shaped about the same and sewing pretty slipcovers for them.

His heart did a little twist right about then.  Karen... shit.  No matter how bad he distracted himself, he never could manage to keep her far from his mind.  She deserved so much better than she’d gotten.

Deep breath.  Tonight was gonna have to be a Four Roses night if he was going to get any sleep whatsoever.  He grabbed the nearest bottle- oh thank god, it's still almost full- and unscrewed the top with shaking hands.

“Here’s mud in your eye,” he muttered before upending the bottle and praying quietly that maybe he’d be real lucky and just not wake up the next morning.