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It's after the mark, when the barest hint of possibility forms. It's always been there, that particular what if. Crowley is self-aware enough to take pride in his scheming and his expert ability to manipulate a situation to fit his needs. And since his capture, he's been waiting for the right something, that little spark to show him his next path.
Cain is that little spark, all that is left is to push Dean in the same direction. But the mark, the mark is artistry. The mark is a seed, in need of nurturing.
When he sees it, that's when Crowley realizes he still needs Dean Winchester. Or, more precisely, he needs Dean to need a dashing devil on his shoulder.
...If Crowley is to live, if he's to reign. He plans to do both.
It's always worked in the past, to some degree or another, using the boys. He's come to know them rather well, how their little hunter brains work, what motivates them. Dare he say it, but he might actually understand Dean Winchester.
He's watched the fading glimmer in the man's eyes, seen the hunter balancing on the edge of the void ever since the first time they met. And Crowley now believes he knows exactly how to break him, and how to remake him.
He deserves this.
It's a whisper in the back of his mind, a near constant. It spends most the day hidden by excuses and frustrations.
Sammy doesn't understand. I was trying to save him. I shouldn't be punished for saving my brother. We've always done whatever it takes. He's alive, that's the most important thing. It hurts too bad without him...
I deserve this.
Dean swallows too hard and the bourbon hurts when it goes down. He doesn't mind that it burns from his throat to his eyes; he's felt worse. Being here, in some run-down motel room, is somehow more searing than any pain anyway. Worse than Hell. And he would know.
The mission, though, keeps him from wallowing and from finishing the bottle. He can't hunt the bitch if his head is as murky as sewer water come morning. He pushes all the shit with Sam, all the thoughts about his brother and angels and Castiel, to the back of his head and focuses: Abaddon. Abaddon has to die.
It's almost a relief, that focus. As long as he's tuned in to that station, everything else is smooth sailing. He can hunt whatever evil crosses his path. Find the kills that deserve it the most (I deserve this) and make his way to the finish line.
It hums, it vibrates beneath the skin, sending a tremor of pleasure through his body, starting at his arm. He almost shakes with need, the need to kill. To end something. It almost feels like arousal, that persistent urge.
He holds it down, ignores it. Promises it that they'll both get what they want on the hunt tomorrow. He puts it to bed; then he puts himself to bed, letting the whiskey do him some good.
Dean's out in no time, but some deep, primal part of him is aware. Aware of words, being whispered, someone speaking his name. He knows he's dreaming. He knows he can wake at any time, but he chooses to stay.
"The thing about you, Dean," Crowley is saying.
Crowley, who is in his dreams. Crowley who isn't real but sounds that way from where he's sitting, on the motel room's rickety cushioned chair, barely a foot from Dean's bed. This version of Crowley sits with one leg crossed over the other, arms relaxed, watching Dean in bed. The demon is pretending to play therapist.
"The thing about you, Dean, is you're a destroyer," he says.
Dean only rolls his head to the side, his cheek on his pillow as he watches the demon. He feels heavy, his shoulder blades pressing into the mattress.
I'm asleep, he reminds himself.
So, it's okay, when he realizes that part of that heaviness is his cock, bobbing half-hard against his thigh. It's okay, because this is just a dream. Shit happens in dreams.
"You destroy everything you touch," Crowley goes on, "and that's such a beautiful thing, Dean. But you're demolishing yourself along the way. Just look at you, all dazed, dick in your hand, letting the big bad King of Hell watch you play."
Dean doesn't realize until then that Crowley's right. Dean's fingers have pushed down his boxers enough to pull his cock up, and he's stroking the length of it, letting the head bounce against his taunt stomach as the demon speaks. The mattress whines weakly as he moves, and Dean echoes it with a soft groan that he can't quite bite down.
He doesn't obey, doesn't want to look down at himself. He just wants to watch Crowley's lips.
Crowley's eyes flicker down at the sight of him and he grins. "But you are a pretty one ..." he says, then turns his attention back to Dean's face. "Bet you've been called that before. A boy doesn't grow up with a pretty face and a pretty cock like yours without being complimented a time or two. And all those seedy motels and trashy apartments dear Daddy Winchester left you in … I'll bet you heard that compliment all the time, didn't you, Dean? Were you always just on the edge of destruction, even then, even when you were just learning to tug that pretty length out of your jeans?"
Dean can't hold back his moan as his muscles tighten, his whole body going rigid as he pumps himself. It's quick; he feels the shoot of cum cover his stomach. For a moment, he simply lays there, wondering when his eyes had closed, when he'd managed to look away from the demon.
When his eyes open again, he realizes he's awake and that the sheet over him is damp and cool. Disgusting. Every bit of it is disgusting. But it's what he deserves. Being covered in filth and sin, it's exactly what he deserves.
He pulls himself out of the bed, glancing the time on the clock and knowing there's even more of the evening left. Enough time to get rest, to be ready. His boxers are on the floor, even though he doesn't remember kicking them off. He slips them back on and moves over to the other bed. The one he'd asked for on instinct, even though there's no one here to share the room.
In the morning, he remembers the dream, but he tells himself he doesn't.
It's hard to find good help these days. Crowley's gone through a few of them already, picking a demon here or there to fuck. His first had been an traitorous bitch, but he'd moved on quickly enough. His appetite for this particular past time hasn't been so strong in ages. It's not that he's ever completely lost interest in sex, but power is far more pleasurable, and for him, power comes in all different forms. There is nothing quite as exhilarating as owning a human soul; anything done between the sheets can't beat that sensation. Or, at least, that's what he tells himself.
Maybe it was even true. Before.
It's the blood. He's aware of it, crawling through his veins, making him resort to this. Making him so bloody needy. Making everything far more intense than it should be. But he's still in control. And he has a plan. A plan that happens to work in his current needs. A plan that is perfectly on track.
The spellwork isn't very hard. Love isn't something he can create with a few herbs and spices and the blood of an innocent. No. But lust, lust is achievable. The trick, he knows, is to make sure the one on the receiving end isn't aware of the magical aspect. Only way to keep the illusion working. And of course, a bit of hands-on work helps in these matters...Crowley is careful. Very careful, when he visits Dean's dreams, his nightmares, his fantasies. He walks in and out of them. His appearance alone is enough to confuse the hunter, and the lust...the lust assures him that Dean isn't going to think too hard on the matter, examine it too closely. Shame will keep him from realizing the truth.
Crowley orders the demon in his bed to leave. Her perfume smells absolutely rotten and lingers when she's gone. She got him off, but there's something lacking in his satisfaction.
He tells himself it has nothing to do with the man he's toying with. It's the blood, he assures himself, and cleans up his act.
Dead tired is an interesting phrase. Dean lets it roll around his head while he stands beneath the water. The heat is nice, even if the water pressure isn't quite what it should be. There's a part of him that worries he might drift off asleep as he stands there, slip and crack his head open on the tub beneath. Wouldn't that be a way to go? To come all this way, to make all the wrong decisions for the right reasons, and bang, out of the picture, before a single one can reach a head.
"I wouldn't worry about missing the climax, darling."
The water whispers the words, or at least, that's what it seems like, the hiss of it echoing around he stall. Dean reaches out, hands flat against the cool tile in front of him, as he braces himself up and reminds himself to shake off his exhaustion and keep his eyes open, but they're closed before the warning is fully issued. He doesn't open them again, but the dim light brightens his eyelids to vivid red, and he imagines it's blood spilling over his face.
"I want it to stop." Dean's not sure where the confession comes from, but the words still the hands sliding against his sides.
The body behind him leans in close, the breath of its words brushing his shoulder.
"You sure about that, Dean?"
Dean knows the voice, knows the accent, the gravel and want in the words. He licks lukewarm water off his own bottom lip, not ready to open his eyes, to wake up. There's a part of him that's gotten used to these dreams, come to rely on them. Come to wish they'd involve hands on his body, and now there they are, gripping his flank gently, as if to hold him upright. They slide down slowly, holding to his hips.
"Not…Not this." Dean swallows hard. "I want the Mark to stop. I'm tired of it, tired of trying to fight it. Tired of pretending it's not changing me."
The lips press down, a soft kiss at the nape of his neck, with a promise. "You're still you," Crowley says. "It's nearly over now, the fighting, the struggling. You're nearly ready to end it."
Crowley's body is pressed flush against his back, wet and hotter than the shower water could manage. Dean arches his back slightly, to lean into him, to feel the length of the other man pressing back, hard and wanting. Dean thinks, absently, that he'll need to bend over if he wants to feel more of that, if he wants it all, and he isn't sure yet. He stays where he's at, frozen, eyes closed, hoping he won't fall.
"The finish line is in sight, Dean. We're nearly there, and you couldn't stop if you wanted. The blade…the blade needs you to keep going."
"You need me."
The words slip out of Dean's mouth as if by accident, and he feels Crowley grow still, his grip a bit too tight.
"We need each other," Crowley finally says, and the words sound stilted, like a confession. "We're partners, after all. Just like you and your blade, Dean. Addiction is funny that way, isn't it?"
Crowley's fingers finally loosen enough to slide over Dean's abdomen, one resting over his stomach, the other brushing his length teasingly. Blood rushes south as Crowley palms the head of Dean's cock, adding a bit of pressure.
"Just do your job, Dean," Crowley whispers, "don't worry about the rest. Old Crowley will be here, to hold you up, when you need it. Understood?"
Dean moans in answer, leaning his head back until he feels he scrap of the man's scruffy cheek against his neck.
When he wakes, he's sitting in the tub, the water streaming around his body from the shower. He wonders how he fell without hurting himself, but he doesn't care to question it.
He's well rested now, awake, ready for what's coming next.
It's the blood's fault. He might not be a junkie, waiting for his next fix, but something in him shifted, and it wasn't falling back into place any time soon. Something in him refused to switch off. That was the only excuse for what he felt right now, standing in the doorway, staring at the body of Dean Winchester, splayed out on the bed.
Victory. This should have been a victory. And maybe it still would be. But he certainly expected it to taste sweeter.
He finds a seat in a chair and feels compelled to speak, to explain, to reason.
"Your brother, bless his soul, is summoning me as we speak … Make a deal, bring you back. It's exactly what I was talking about, isn't it? It's all become so … expected." He pauses, remembering his own choice, his own decision. How well he'd come to know the hunters. His hunters. There was some amount of claim to be had, wasn't there? For leading them down this path?
"You have to believe me," he begins again and shakes his head. "I didn't know that this was going to happen. Not really. I mean, I might not 've told you the entire truth. But I never lied. I never lied, Dean!"
He lowers his voice, tempering himself for what's to come. He needs to get this all out, in the open. He needs to do this right.
"That's important," he continues, more softly. "It's fundamental. But, there is one story about Cain that I might've forgotten to tell you. Apparently, he too was willing to accept death rather than becoming the killer the Mark wanted him to be, so he took his own life with the blade. He died. Except, as rumor has it, the Mark never quite let go."
Crowley pulls the blade free from his jacket, balancing it between his hands, as if to study it one last time. "You can understand why I never spoke of this. Why set hearts aflutter at mere speculation? It wasn't until you summoned me. No," Crowley reconsiders, then stands, walking over to the bed. "No … It wasn't until you left that cheeseburger uneaten."
He slips the blade into Dean's hand, gently curling his cold fingers around the handle. "That I began to let myself believe - " He lifts Dean's arm to cross it over his still chest, letting the blade rest flat against his sternum, the handle where a heart once beat. " - maybe miracles do come true. Listen to me, Dean Winchester. What you're feeling right now, it's not death, it's life. A new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean. See, what I see. Feel, what I feel … Let's go take a howl at that moon."
The black eyes looking up at him, knowing him, seeing him, bring a smile to Crowley's face. Any doubt he felt washes away. Dean Winchester is mine, he thinks. And I am his King.
He's uncontrollable. Dean likes himself this way, which is what he repeats when he searches himself for something, some inkling of feeling and goes cold instead. He knows what he should do, what he should say, but it's frustrating, this sudden … freedom. Mostly because it's not freedom at all. Sure, doubt, guilt, those things don't hold him back, so he can take what he wants, do what he wants, without shame. But. There's always a but. If he was truly free, the urge would be gone.
As his hands grips her hips, Dean feels her fingertips brush his forearm, over the raised skin, always tender, and he closes his eyes to stop them from going black. He lifts his hips, meeting her before she can lower her center down onto his cock. She lets out a little noise that puts a feral grin on his face, then sets a faster pace to satisfy him.
Wet heat, a squeeze, is a good distraction for a few minutes. It takes his mind off murder.
Weeks. Weeks of fighting the urge, and he's found the things that help him now are the same ones that helped him when he was a human. Booze, bar fights, and… well.
Anne Marie calls his name, and he wants to shut her up, so he flips her over, controlled enough to open his eyes again as he gets a grip on the edge of the mattress.
It's almost funny that he fights the urge to kill out of spite, still only feeding the addiction when the odd demon comes his way, looking for revenge. Recently, he's bloodied the blade on demons just as much as he had as a human hunter. Some things don't change, it seems, even when the world is flipped upside down.
"Dean Winchester is still Dean Winchester," Crowley commented one night while they were putting back shots. The idea would have made Dean sick if he could still feel the implications. Instead he had slapped Crowley on the back like an old friend and meandered up to the karaoke bar just to piss off the other barflies.
Dean uses his free hand to hold Anne Marie's knee out, get a good look at his length sliding into her, nice and slow, then again, fast enough for him to hear that delightful slap of skin on skin. He bites his bottom lip to keep from smiling when he notices the movement from the corner of the room.
It's Crowley, at his usual seat at the table. He uncrosses legs, as good an indicator as any that he can see the little show Dean's putting on for him. Whether Crowley knows Dean can see him or not, well, Dean's a little foggy on that point. All he knows is that the girl can't see the demon and that Crowley always pretends he was off doing something better when he comes in post-coitus.
Dean kind of wishes Crowley would tell him how that's done, the going invisible thing, but it looks like the other lower level hell scum can't quite pull the trick off. Maybe it's a perk of being King. Or maybe it's a magic trick Crowley refuses to share with them. Either way, Dean can't come out and ask about it. Asking would mean admitting he knows about these visits. Where would be the fun in that?
Dean pumps into her hard, until her blond hair is over her face and she's just one open mouth, gasping for breath. He slides his fingers down her inner leg, until his thumb hits the swollen tip of her clit, and she's already coming around him, shaking like she's being tased, but he wants it to keep going. Wants her feeling so good it hurts, because next time he wants to get head at closing time, she'll get on her knees while the good whiskey is still in reach.
"Come for me," Dean grunts, like an animal, and knows she's going to be too tender to touch herself for days. "Come for me."
And if she notices the request is redundant, she's too caught up in the sweat and slap and shake of him to respond. The instruction isn't for her, though. Dean does turn to see if Crowley's obeyed, but he knows.
I'm not your servant, Dean thinks, and the grin won't leave his face now. He wants to laugh, he wants to howl.
"Moose, took you long enough," Crowley says into the phone. "Your brother and I were beginning to wonder if you'd hit another dog."
It's maybe a little unnecessary, but he enjoys hinting at how much he and Dean have gotten to know one another. The details are what sell a lie, after all.
Crowley wouldn't, not for another century on the rack, admit that he's genuinely happy to hear from Sam Winchester. Even though the youngest Winchester obviously doesn't feel the same way, Crowley is certain that both the brothers will one day be in his inner circle. Time, after all, makes demons of us all, or at least, that's the motto in Hell.
At the moment, though, Sam is being rather annoying. He's having a hard time seeing what's right in front of him. Big brother is a demon, Sammy; hard pill to swallow, apparently. Crowley resists the urge to roll his eyes at the hunter's threats.
"He's with me, and he's having the time of his life," Crowley blurts. "You can't stand the fact that he's mine…"
That part sounds like a lie, too, and it pisses Crowley off.
There's more spewing out of his mouth, but Crowley barely hears himself, barely hears Sam's countering promise of a permanent death, barely gives a cocky, "Good luck with that." Because he's caught up in the idea that he has what he wants, but it doesn't feel complete. Dean's not his completely. He's given Dean his space, let him try to work through the kinks on his own, let him have his black-eyed holiday. Crowley would be sick of this kind of 'fun' if it wasn't Dean by his side, if all of this wasn't leading to something more.
When Crowley decides it's time for another drink, he settles in to a confession with his new partner in sin, reminding himself to tack on the part where Sam's on their tail somewhere at the end. Honestly, it warms his withered little heart that Dean's barely peeved over the fact that the demons trying to kill him were actually sent on Hell's orders. Once that's out of the way, Crowley builds up the finish, explaining what Dean must already know, that the kills need to keep coming. That the arrangement works for both of them, that there's finally a reason for them to be by each other's side.
"...We create the perfect Hell."
The pitch is out, and Crowley is desperate to see delight in Dean's eyes, but it's not there. It should be. Dean might not be the most logical beast, but surely he can see a good thing right in front of him. No need to sound needy; Crowley gives him time instead of arguing the point, "Take the night, decide. You know where to find me."
Like he can say no. Like there's the barest possibility that this won't work between them. But it needs to, it has to. Dean as his beast, his knight, and Crowley as his leader, his king; Crowley wants it more than he ever wanted the crown, and he stomps down the little whisper inside him ("Its the blood talking, you needy whore, you addict").
Dean won't say no. Because the mark won't let him. The thought is enough to keep Crowley from walking back and promising him the world. ("You can only give him Hell.") He can wait another night.
The new motel room somehow smells like Ann Marie. The poor dear wears too much perfume to cover up the smell of stale beer, but Crowley's grown fond of it since Dean's little liaison with her started. The stench must have rubbed off on Dean's things and travelled with him. Sweet girl, but it was doomed to end with Demon Dean in the driver's seat. Only a matter of time, really, and if only she knew how much worse it could have been than a few nasty words between lovers.
The linens on the second bed are still clean, thankfully, so Crowley sits with his back against the headboard, ankles crossed, and waits for Dean's broken singing in the shower to, thankfully, end. Crowley told himself he was going to let Dean come back to him. But that night had come and gone, the short lived visit from Sam over as well… And Dean hasn't taken any offer to rule at his side.
Crowley grimaces, mentally chiding himself for using the cliche, but it is a fitting one. If Dean agrees to this, it will be Crowley holding a leash, sure, but not forever. Not once Dean is fully on board. He means what he'd said about letting Dean help him re-create Hell. They fill in each others gaps so perfectly. It would be a new era.
"Here to tuck me in?"
Dean's gravelly voice shakes Crowley, but on the outside, his eyes only cut across the room to stare, unimpressed, at the naked form in the bathroom doorway. Dean is blotting off his short hair with a thin towel, obviously finished with drying his body, though he's dripping a trail of water onto the stained carpet. He crosses the room, unashamed, and stops at the first bed, unzipping his bag to rifle through it, presumably for clothes.
Crowley doesn't let his gaze linger on the dimples at Dean's hips for long, glaring up at Dean's eyes, the tiny crinkles at the corners that seem to appear whenever he's hiding a grimace or a grin.
"Planning to go out?" Crowley asks. "Catch a show?"
"This side of town has better strip clubs. Might hit up a few," Dean says, as if that explains why he didn't bother to mention the change in motels to Crowley. His partner. His King. Dean tilts his chin slightly in the other demon's direction."You enjoying the view?"
"Nothing I haven't seen before," Crowley admits, hoping his slight trepidation doesn't show when he processes his own confession.
"No, it isn't, is it?"
There is some hint of confrontation in Dean's words. Crowley resists the urge to sit up straighter. Instead he goads him. "You occasionally provide decent entertainment," he notes. "The show's a bit repetitive of late."
Dean raises a brow, as if that were a challenge. He's quiet a long moment, and Crowley wonders what's going on in that head of his, and if it involves homicide, because surely that blade of his is singing to him right about now.
"You know, I've been thinking about that deal of yours," Dean finally says, as if changing the subject. "Honestly, I don't know if it's your best work. What, you being the king of deals and whatnot. Seems it's a bit lacking in details, a little broad around the finer points. Hell, it's even a little one sided, I think."
Dean cuts himself off with, "There it is." He pulls up a small bottle, palming it with a grin, then turns the expression on Crowley. "Water only did so much for the prep work. Figured we might as well make things a bit easier."
He tosses the bottle, and Crowley reaches out instinctively, snatching it up and realizing it is half empty. He holds it up between two fingers, noting the label with a frown. He swallows hard, unsure if he's heard the man correctly. The shift in conversation has given him momentary whiplash.
"Getting some use out of this of late?"
"Might have had a few test runs on Ann Marie," Dean says, his smile diminishing slightly. "But you'd know about that, wouldn't you?"
Solid confirmation: so he had seen him. Crowley wondered. Spying on his own kind is something Crowley realized was possible early in his reign, but he'd suspected it might not work on a being as unique as the heir of Cain. Still, he wasn't sure… He stifles his surprise, lazily standing from his spot on the bed and holding the bottle of lube out, as if it were tainted with holy water.
"Who doesn't love the occasional invasion of privacy?" he admits, lightly.
Dean steps forward, as if to take it from him, but he keeps his hands at his sides instead. "You going to do this with your clothes on? Not that I mind a bit of friction."
Crowley can bring hellfire to his fingertips, but he suddenly feels a rush of heat around his neck that is hotter than brimstone. "Do what exactly?"
Dean raises a brow. "This deal of yours, this partnership, I'm still mullin' it over, but if I'm honest, you probably need to be doing to same. See, I think you're not thinking straight. It's hard to think business when you're frustrated."
He reaches up, pushing Crowley's outstretched arm away to get closer. When their chests are inches apart, Dean stops, staring down at the other demon with that teasing smile on his face. "Why don't we do both of us a favor and get this part out of the way, then we can talk shop."
Crowley opens and closes his mouth, for once lost for words. "Just to clarify …" he begins.
"You're gonna fuck me," Dean finishes, for him. He leans in, his lips brushing Crowley's ear. "Or we can take turns. I mean, that's not how I dreamed about it happening, but whatever, I'm game, man. Or am I wrong? Is this not what you've been aiming for?"
Crowley grabs Dean by his arms, as if to push him back, but holds him still. Instead, he arches his neck back, to get a good look at Dean's face. "How long?" he asks.
"Have I known?" Dean's eyes flashed to black. "Since before I got these."
Crowley glares at him, some part of him angry that he'd been made so early on. If his dick wasn't currently pressing into the inside of his slacks, he might find the willpower to storm out. As it were, though, he puts a bit of force into his shove, knocking Dean over onto the mattress. Dean lands on his back, with a bark that might have been a laugh, then pushes himself upon to his elbows to watch Crowley pull his belt free. With a snap of his wrist, he pops the strip of leather, hitting Dean across the chest. The blow leaves a welt and lights something behind Dean's eyes.
"Might come back to that," Crowley says, taking note. "For now, though, I think there are better ways to teach this boy a lesson."
"You do like to hear yourself talk," Dean replies.
"You've no idea, darling." Crowley slips off his jacket, methodically laying it out on the other bed to keep it from wrinkling. His shirt and tie follow suit. He considers for a minute following Dean's suggestion to leave it all on, unzip below the button and send the scraps all to the cleaners after, but that might show a lack of restraint that, while valid, he's trying to hide. When his slacks are folded, his shoes tucked away, he knees apart Dean's legs and stands between them, a brow raised expectantly.
Dean huffs, like he's amused, but leans forward to obey the unspoken order. His mouth is the stuff of dreams, a smooth tongue slowly rolling against Crowley's length like it's taking a measurement. Crowley's hands shake with the urge to grab him, flip him, enter him, but neither of them are ready yet. Instead he digs his fingers into Dean's short hair. Dean doesn't fight his lead, swallowing Crowley's cock without hesitation. He stops at a few inches, angling his head to one side so that the tip pushes against the inside of his cheek. Crowley's fingers tighten, and he rolls his hips, forcing Dean to sputter as he takes more of the shaft. Crowley rocks into his mouth, humming low to himself in satisfaction as he feels Dean shutter when cock hits the back of his throat.
"Another thing we should try out later," he mutters, as if to himself.
But he's already too hard and heavy with anticipation to find out if a demon can choke. He lets go of Dean's head, stepping back slightly. Dean stares up at him, lips already pink and wet.
"That all you got?" Dean challenges.
"Hands and knees," Crowley orders, barely keeping the tremor from his voice. "Let's see if you've done a decent job with that hole of yours. I'd gamble you have. Not your first rodeo, is it?"
He can't help but notice the way Dean's cock bobs as he gets up onto the bed, onto his knees. Crowley holds down a smile, glad to see the reaction, but Dean doesn't answer the question.
"You know," he says, instead, sounding hoarse, "I always wondered if you didn't pick that meat suit of yours based on the size of the guy's dick. Guess I would have won that bet."
Crowley appreciates the attention, reaching out to run his hands over Dean's hips. "Of coarse," he says, as if it were obvious. One of his hands slips between Dean's legs, the side of his finger finding the stretch of skin between his sack and his hole, rubbing it almost soothingly. "Why do you think I've kept this body for so long?"
Dean's panted breath is enough of a reply, and Crowley leans down, letting his cock brush the cleft of the younger man's ass. "Thought you'd enjoy that," Crowley notes, with satisfaction. "Can't be said that I'm not a giving sovereign, can it?"
Dean raises his head, as if to speak over one shoulder. "Well, if His Majesty doesn't get on with it, I'm going to finish this game on my own."
"Needy beast, aren't you?" Crowley snaps.
Entering Dean, it's a sort of ecstasy that transcends the physical. Crowley grunts at the tight squeeze, his legs shaking slightly with the bare restraint of stopping only a few inches inside. He wants to savor the moment. This, this was what he'd needed for so long. Dean Winchester on his knees; Dean Winchester asking for him.
"How much do you think you can take?" Crowley manages to ask. Somehow he keeps his voice steady, like he's in control, like he'll find any answer to that question amusing.
"Thought you were going to fuck me. Didn't say anything about being tender and cuddling after, did I?" Dean says, sounding strained.
Crowley feels the muscles in the man's hips tighten, as if he's trying to hold himself still. Trying to stop himself for pushing back against Crowley's cock. It brings a smile to the king's lips.
"The boy gets what the boy wants," Crowley mutters, faintly, and rocks his hips.
There's a reason he prefers fucking demons when he's in a mood. They don't break near as easy.
He doesn't bother with setting a rhythm, but simply gives in, pounding into Dean hard and deliberate. Crowley imagines it would feel the same if he was using his fists to deliver blows to Dean's face, because, Hell help him, he's wanted to over the past few weeks. Wanted to punch the newborn demon. Wanted to punish Dean for not letting their ending be what he'd imagined.
Crowley watches the pale skin beneath him blush and closes his eyes, imagining what Dean's face must look like, should look like: swollen lips twisting in happy agony, brow wrinkling as he tries not to shoot his load too quickly. Would they quiver, those lips, when Crowley propped one knee on the bed, flush against his hip, angling a deep thrust that did more than tease his prostrate? Crowley thinks they might in the second before Dean bites at his bottom lip to try and stifle a cry.
Only the cry doesn't come the way Crowley imagines. A growl, a muffled utterance into the blanket beneath, "Fuck, you're big."
The sound of the voice almost brings Crowley out of the moment, but his body relents, feeling the tight, maddening squeeze of Dean's ass before he smells the man's cum. Crowley can't last much longer, not with the image of Dean's face mid-climax still dancing behind his eyelids.
He doesn't bother to pull out. Crowley wants to be inside, wants to dig in deep. Possess every part of him. This will have to do.
Crowley's legs barely hold him up when he finally steps away, in a pleasant daze, muscles twitching in all the right ways, and bites down a grin of relief.
It's cut short by a huff of laughter as Dean rolls over onto his side, wiping himself off with one end of the soiled blanket. His smile is easy, almost genuine if not for the coldness in his narrow gaze. It's an expression Dean wears every time he speaks to Crowley.
"Well someone had been holding that in a while," Dean teases. He tilts his head, giving Crowley's lower half an admiring glance. "But props to you, man. Got the job done."
Crowley hums some sort of affirmation, trying to hide his disappointment. Those words, those aren't the ones he wants to hear. He wants shame, he wants doubt, and he wanted to be able to wipe those things away. He wants green eyes, not black ones, he realizes, annoyed at himself.
It's just the blood in his veins talking, Crowley knows.
Dean sits up, giving an overly dramatic wince as he rolls onto his backside. "What? I blow your mind, old guy?"
Crowley realizes he's been quiet too long and forces a tight smile to his face. "Hell of a way to begin negotiations," he says, aiming for agreement. "So, need any more time to think about my offer?"
Dean's expression doesn't so much as shift as he shrugs. A dismissal. "I'll get back to you."
The blow leaves him stunned. It's just a momentary shock, but it's long enough that he knows it's been noticed by all. Indignant rage pours through him a second later, but it's cooled somewhat but an unexpected tinge of something new: fear.
He's afraid of Dean Winchester.
Not just that he'll spill to the world, tell every demon around what gets him off, but that Dean Winchester may wipe the slate clean altogether. End them, literally and figuratively.
A fist to the face is what he needs, what Crowley needs to get his head on straight again, but he'd rather it not have taken place for his underlings to see. Gossips, those demons.
There's a joke somewhere in the air, about them breaking-up. Counter the truth with the truth and the others will think it's a lie; a technique that's worked in the past. Crowley tries to pretend the words leaving his mouth don't sting as much as Dean's punch.
It's over, the fantasy. It's over because the Dean Winchester he wants to rule Hell by his side is already dead. Broken and remade, in his image.
Sam seems to be in a constant state of livid these days. Which is the reason Crowley is sure the hunter won't read between the lines, won't see the real reason for Crowley's change of mind. Won't figure out what happened between the sheets, as it were.
And he knows that Dean won't speak a word, not if things go as planned. And the Winchesters, for all their misfortune, seem to have good luck when it comes to sticking around. Someone upstairs must find them entertaining, and not just the bloke in the trenchcoat.
It's over, Crowley realizes. And he feels lost, but he raises a brow at Sam's appearance, burying the thought deep, as if he might be able to forget his plans. Forget his hopes.
"You're here for Dean," he says. "I'm here to give him to you."