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Being a demon meant a number of things. An affinity for gruesome murder was a given. A particular enjoyment in playing with the minds of the members of that pitiful thing that was humanity was another. Especially if the manipulations ended up in a war. Small things, you understand.
A lack of need for sleep was also part of the deal. Oh sure, from time to time one could indulge in a nap of sorts, but it wasn't really necessary. Enjoyable but not necessary.
However, Bobby had quickly scoffed at the idea of Crowley leaving for the night and coming back in the morning. Honestly, one time Crowley came back from a little run-in with his fellow demons, and the hunter suddenly was cursing up a storm whenever Crowley mentioned an all-night excursion. Crowley couldn't really understand the fuss. His limbs grew back, did they not?
So, like it or not, the demon was forced to remain in the hunter's house. It wasn't so bad, as it quickly turned out. Oh sure, he couldn't very well go out and quench his thirst for gory mayhem, but he could plan it. In great detail. And when he wasn't in the mood for that, he could just read a book or troll around the internet. And once in a while he even slept next to the hunter. They were sharing a bed, after all, so he could indulge.
However, the nights when he stayed awake were the most amusing.
The first time it had happened, Crowley wasn't sure what in the Hell had happened. One minute he was quietly reading in the dark, Bobby deeply asleep on his side next to him. Then suddenly Bobby yelled “NOT THE TUTU!!”, rolled over and went back to sleep.
Crowley had stared at the hunter for a long time after that, eyes wide and body tense as he waited for either an explanation or another exclamation. None came, in case you were wondering. At least not during that night.
After that, Crowley begun to not sleep and paid close attention to the hunter. The next night nothing happened; Bobby just snored quietly. And farted a few times, but the demon was already used to that.
Three days (or nights) later, another interesting exclamation occurred. “Get the fucking noodles, already!” Still no sense, but at least it wasn't so loud this time.
The night yellings came in different types. There was the completely idiotic (“Fucking horny dust bunny!”), the kinda-connected to work (“Duct tape the bumper back on!”), those connected to his other work (“The werewolf's humping that tree!”), and those connected with the house (“The roof fell down the stairs.”). There was very little exclamations that could possibly be connected to Crowley (“Sell the soup and soul!”), but Crowley thought that was for the best. He wasn't all that keen on listening to Bobby rave at him in his sleep. No, he got enough of being called a lily-white assed pansy during the day. Usually before or after they fucked their brains out.
Then, one day, Crowley got the brilliant idea to strike up a conversation.
“The fish sticks are soggy.” Bobby proclaimed, shifting slightly in his sleep.
“No, they're not.” Crowley answered, watching the hunter closely.
“Yeah, they are.”
Crowley changed tactics. “Don't you like soggy fish sticks?”
“Tastes like limp dick.” Bobby said gruffly then dropped off into a deep sleep.
Well. That hadn't been that brilliant of an idea after all. He'd still insisted on preparing some fish sticks for the hunter's lunch the next day, though. And yes, they might have been a little soggy.
Well, what did you expect? He was a demon, after all.