The life of a hunter has never been, and will never be, peaceful. On an average night, Bobby would be running through an abandoned warehouse, shotgun in hand, and making sure to check each corner before he swooped around it. The average day, he was flipping through a book that had pages bound together with old leather, calling the boys on his mobile, and drinking.
The life of the King of Hell has never been, and will never be, luxurious. People thought it was all silk sheets and caviar, but they had it all wrong. Crowley spent the average trying to ward off rebel demons, or escape the latest gung-ho hunter. He spent the average day making deals with the scum of the earth, listening to their “problems”.
But there was the odd night when Bobby wasn’t chasing some ghost through a corn field, or Crowley wasn’t slipping into darkness, dodging rock salt fired from a shotgun. There was the odd night, when the windows of Bobby’s home were closed to the world. There was the odd night, when the two men were wrapped together on Bobby’s bed, Crowley on his back, fingers fisting into the sheets, the hunter’s name on his lips as Bobby pushed into him. And the peace nestles in their bones when Bobby picks up a steady pace, and Crowley writhes beneath him. And they both moan wordlessly as their mouths connect.