Standing Outside the Fire

4

[Weekend at Bobby's]

INT. BOBBY'S HOUSE

The news was playing on TV. "Yesterday this Galveston shoreline was being pounded by ten foot swells and winds up to 150 miles per hour..."

ONE YEAR AGO

"...but today, well, there's not a cloud in sight. Hurricane Tiffany has broken up over the Gulf-"

Bobby was working on a ritual. He cut his palm and added his blood to the ingredients in a large bowl. "Et ad congregandum... Eos coram me."

Bobby lit a match and set the ingredients in the bowl alight. Crowley appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Been making merry, have we?" Crowley questioned.

"Bite me," Bobby retorted.

"If that's your thing." He snapped his fingers to turn off the TV and stepped towards Bobby. "That swan dive of Sam's was a thing of beauty. Tens all the way around. Standing ov from the Romanian judge. You should be proud, Bobby. As deaths go, it wasn't too shabby. Cheer up, mate, we just saved the sodding world together. Me, I've been celebrating."

"I'd hate to see what you call celebrating."

"Yes, you would."

Bobby lifted a bottle of alcohol and offered it to Crowley. "Drink?"

Crowley looked appalled. "No!"

Bobby poured himself a drink. "Let me get this straight - we just," he mocked Crowley's accent, ""saved the sodding world together," and you're too good to drink with me?"

"Obviously." He pointed to a bottle on the television. "I doubt that you have my brand."

"What's your poison, your highness?"

Crowley breathed in deep. "Craig. Aged 30 years at least. I've been drinking it since grade school."

"Well, I got old rotgut aged six days." He took a drink as Crowley watched.

"Swill like that is gonna burn a hole in your soul -- oops sorry, my soul. But that's why you called. Our little deal."

"Yeah, well, it's about time you hold up your end and give it back."

"Give it back?"

"Our deal was, we ice Lucifer, you rip up the lease."

Crowley smirked. "Oh." He turned away from Bobby. "You didn't read your contract."

"The hell you talking about, contract?"

Crowley turned towards Bobby, snapped his fingers and pointed. Bobby writhed in pain as writing appeared on his body. "Paragraph 18, subsection B, which is on your naughty bits - I only have to make "best efforts" to give back your soul."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning..." he made a straining gesture and sighed, "I'd like to - but I can't."

"You lying sack of-" Crowley cut him off.

"Ten years," Crowley walked across the room towards Bobby, "you come to daddy. Until then, I suggest you start drinking the good stuff."

"I figured you'd say that. So you can rot here till you change your mind."

"Why? 'Cause you asked nicely?"

Bobby shook his head. "No." He walked past Crowley to the back of the room. "'Cause I'm going Dateline on your ass." He turned on the light, revealing a Devil's Trap painted on the floor in glowing paint.