Chill

Spirit in the Sky

~One and a half years later~

One year. One lousy year full of self-hatred, booze and blame. Since he left the world of the living, the demon who loved selflessly gave up on rules and self-care. Crowley had collapsed entirely unto himself, drinking away any pain he was fortunate enough to feel as a soulless being from Hell but torturing any crossroads demon he crossed paths with, if they had a hand in Bobby's demise or not. He blamed himself for the hunter's untimely death. If only he had stayed with him until he was definitely okay, rather than ditching when he was tired of waiting.

It felt like only yesterday that they came. Hellhounds had destroyed the windows and doors of Bobby's home in Sioux Falls, bombarding in without a second glance at the once King of Hell stood opposite Bobby. They took Singer by surprise to say the least, but yet he didn't make a single attempt to move from their line of attack, screams emanating from him as they tore him apart. Crowley when he was King of the Crossroads had of course overseen the collecting of many souls over the years, however witnessing his other half be torn limb from limb, organs dangling, blood gushing, by the very muts he had overseen the training of, broke him. His mind and few emotions, he had clung to for Bobby's sake, shattered. Heart broken, Crowley had collapsed to his knees, he yelled obscenities at the hounds, but they only stopped when Bobby was down to his last breath. The once King remembered crawling, scrambling, towards his body, pulling it into his lap as he took his last breath.

Who knew a demon could feel? Crowley did nothing but feel when he lost Bobby, which brings us to now, where said man is working his way through booze by the bottle, reaching one that had a note from someone called 'R'. A light chuckle escaped his lips, his empty hand forming somewhat of a fist, thumb and forefinger pressed together as he snapped. He still had a few party tricks he could use since cutting himself off from Hell, a fire blazing to life behind him.

Relaxing back into the chair, he popped off the cork in the bottle and let the chill of the fire settle his mind. "Robert Singer... A man of great taste!" Crowley grumbled, an icy mist leaving his lips with every word and breath until the rim of the container met his lips, the rum trickling and burning his throat on the way down. Sure it was the year anniversary of his death, but that didn't mean jack squat to Crowley in terms of daily activities. Today was just another measly excuse to slowly waste away, downing the various bottles of alcohol left behind by Bobby. Another excuse to- enjoy the fires...

Chill?

Flames straight from a demon's finger couldn't go out unless another supernatural force trumped it, and of course Crowley would have sensed it. Whatever it was had managed to slip under his drunken radar and dampen the fire to almost nothing, the whole room dropping roughly ten degrees celsius. A shiver racked the demon, forcing him to slam the bottle of rum on the desk and whirl around to face the fireplace. What he had found was the last he had ever, or 

would ever, anticipate being before his eyes.

"Bobby?" His thick accent was adorned with sobs and Crowley's voice broke, knees buckling. As Crowley hit the ground, knees first, tears fell uncontrollably in disbelief at the entity before him; all he could think was that other demons had been sent to torment him further, that was clearly not the case as warmth surrounded him.

Ghosts and spirits naturally caused temperature drops, and had to carry an insane amount of power to touch or hold something that wasn't in the veil with them. Any hunter would have passed out at the idea that a frozen memory, some would call ghosts this, could bring about physical warmth or peace. This was the cherry on top of the cake for Crowley, making him crumble into a supposed oblivion as Bobby had wrapped his pale arms around him. The man who had died a year ago to that day wore a gentle smile, cradling Crowley in his embrace to try and provide him with the comfort he had so desperately needed.

"Look at ya, ya idjit!" He began, whispering mostly as to not startle Crowley further; of course the ghost of his boyfriend blows out the fire, makes it super cold, then gives him a warm hug, out of all that speaking will be the scariest part. "You're supposed to be a darn King! Not this sorry excuse of a widow..."

"That's your own bloody fault!" Crowley snapped. "You left me... but I'll try harder." His tone softened ever so slightly, becoming tired of his own emotions; who knew being somewhat human was this exhausting? Certainly not Fergus MacLeod. "Just promise me something..."

"So long as you let me go for good this time."

"Don't bring the Chill with you when you visit dearie..." And just like that, as soon as he had grown comfortable and content with the long awaited touch of Bobby Singer, a forehead kiss was given with a chuckle and the warmth was replaced by a new thing. It wasn't emptiness per say, but a fulfilling loneliness. The only light shining down was Bobby's soul, dancing across and away for the next year to his personal paradise, hoping his partner would manage.