"Happy birthday, Bobby!" chorused Sam and Dean, clinking their beer bottles together and smiling at the obvious embarrassment of their uncle. They hadn't had a family "birthday party" since Sam had turned 21, and even then Bobby had just given the boys $100 each and the names of the best strip clubs in town, and his services as designated driver. Tonight, however, was Bobby's 45th birthday; since they were working a job only an hour away, the Winchester brothers had decided to bring over a couple six packs and some pizza to help their favorite uncle celebrate another year of not getting ganked by some monster.

"Yeah, yeah, quiet down." Bobby smiled, taking another sip out of his beer bottle. He looked at the boys: Sam, towering and shaggy-haired, relaxing his moose-like frame in Bobby's best recliner; and Dean, the elder brother, sitting cross-legged on the couch, smirking at something on the TV. "Y'know," Bobby started, "I remember when you two idgits were just knee-high to a grasshopper…"

"Alright, Bobby, I think you've had enough," laughed Dean. "It's getting late…we'd better head out soon anyway."

"Yeah, we'd love to stay and listen to you get sentimental," added Sam, "but there's a werewolf loose in Yankton and we gotta—"

Bobby laughed. "Yeah, you boys got a job to do. Thanks for stopping by." Nobody hugged, nobody said "I love you"—they all just understood. A quick head nod, and a warning from Bobby to stay out of trouble, and the two were off on the road again.

Bobby went and plopped down in his armchair, still warm from where Sam had been sitting. He nursed the last swigs of his beer, thinking about nothing in general. The television was playing some mindless sitcom as usual; there were two empty pizza boxes on the coffee table in front of him. "Better throw those away," he muttered to nobody. He stood up after chugging down the last of his beer and carried the boxes to the trash bin.

Knock knock knock.

Bobby jumped a bit, startled. Someone was knocking on his front door. "Can't be the boys, they always just walk in…a demon would just appear in here, as would an angel…huh. Might be someone stranded." He decided to walk carefully to the door and peer through the glass. The person on his front step was a blonde female, probably mid to late 20s, who was holding a box, yet there was no car in sight.

"Um…hello?" he asked, not yet opening the door."

"Package for Robert Singer?" She had a lilt in her voice, almost English sounding. Bobby shrugged and opened the door; the blonde smiled politely and walked right past him into his living room. "I hear it's your birthday, love," she said, removing her coat and revealing a very scant red dress that made Bobby blush. "So, happy birthday." She passed him the package, wrapped impeccably in crimson paper. Opening it, Bobby discovered a fifth of whisky and two shot glasses. Whoever sent him this package must have known him well. He decided to take a swig; as soon as the liquor touched his lips he knew who the package was from.

"Crowley."

The girl smirked. "I know him, yes. Not directly, of course, but he said this delivery was very important." She slinked closer to him. "There's more, you know. To the delivery."

Bobby looked at her perplexed. Her hand had gone behind her back, and she was biting her lip and staring straight at him. So Crowley was coming after him on his birthday? He'd sent some girl with a peace offering, and then—what was she doing behind her back, looking for a hidden dagger?

Bobby's answer came when the girl's dress fell, leaving her as naked as the day she was born. She'd been unzipping herself. "Well, Robert, shall we?"

"Oh golly. Crowley sent me…"

"Crowley," purred the girl, "should be the last thing on your mind right now. C'mon, to the bed with you. Oh, my name's Emma, since you'll be calling it out in a mome—where are you going?" Bobby had walked away from her into the kitchen, grabbed the table salt and generously poured it all over her; just as he expected, she disappeared.

"Huh. Demon whore."

A few moments passed before Bobby heard a very familiar voice in his kitchen. "You know, it's very rude to vaporize someone's present."

"Well, Crowley, thanks but no thanks. You should've stopped with the craig."

Crowley smirked, walking into the living room. "Finally, I've taught you an appreciation for fine liquors. Although," he picked up a beer bottle, "I see you're still downing the swill. Miller Lite? Really? I thought you were better than that, love."

Bobby sighed. "Why are you here?"

"It's your birthday, Robert. I gave you a present, you didn't like it, so I've come to see what I might give you instead." Crowley sat on the couch beside Bobby licked his lips—probably an involuntary gesture, but it sent Bobby's mind wandering. He suddenly pictured himself licking those lips, Crowley's deep accented voice telling him where his hands should go, slowly but surely grazing every inch of flesh with his lips and tongue.

"Hello? Robert?"

"Oh, uh…yeah." Bobby shook his head, bringing himself back into reality. He'd never thought of another man that way—was Crowley doing some sort of mind trick on him? No, he couldn't be…this was far from the first time he'd thought like this about the king of Hell. Oh, what the hell…it was his birthday, he should have a little fun.

"You wanna give me something I want?"

"Of course, Bobby." Crowley leaned forward eagerly. "Whatever you want."

Bobby wasn't even sure what he was doing, but he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Crowley's. This was nothing like the kiss they'd shared when they had made a deal—there was passion, fire behind this kiss. Crowley swept his tongue across Bobby's in an absolutely filthy way; Bobby responded by pulling off Crowley's jacket and sliding his fingers beneath his now-untucked shirt. Crowley growled against Bobby's lips, nearly ripping his flannel shirt as he pulled it off. He leaned Bobby back onto the couch, kissing him slower but moving his hands down Bobby's chest and tummy, only pausing their kiss to laugh softly. "Bobby, love, you need to start working out. This tumtum is getting out of control."

"Shut up." Bobby pulled Crowley back down, tongues interlocking again, hips jutting to meet each other's. Crowley shifted, pressing his cloth-covered hardened cock against Bobby's at last; a shiver ran through Bobby's spine as Crowley growled again, rutting himself against Bobby roughly, nearly panting. He lowered himself to kiss Bobby's neck, noting the tender spots behind his ear and right below his jaw, and nibbled and sucked his way down Bobby's chest. He unbuttoned Bobby's jeans and pulled them down along with his underwear, exposing his hardened cock. Crowley smirked, kissing the head and wrapping his hand around it, spreading pre-come across the shaft. Bobby threw his head back, groaning; he thought it would be too ironic to moan "Oh God", so he just smirked and kept quiet.

Crowley pumped his hand up and down Bobby's cock, stopping every now and then to add the lubrication of his own saliva. Bobby weaved his fingers in Crowley's hair and pulled his face closer to his cock; Crowley winked at him, muttering how he always did know exactly what he wanted, then slowly guided his cock and shaft against his lips and into his mouth. Bobby's hips pumped with Crowley's rough movements; both men were groaning as Bobby reached his breaking point. Crowley smirked as he watched Bobby squirm under him, moaning his name, coming harder than he had in years (or probably ever).

"Well…damn," muttered Bobby, after a few moments.

"Happy birthday, Mr. Singer," whispered Crowley, and with another fleeting kiss he was gone.