I'm your villain (Dean/Crowley, nc-17, 2.5k)
This is NOT proofread and written at extreme speed! I will tidy up mistakes tomorrow, sorry! For __tiana__'s prompt 'a thousand kisses deep' at salt_burn_porn <333
I'm your villain
(Dean/Crowley, nc-17, 2.5k, dub-con overtones)
The only thing of the old life that Dean keeps is Crowley, and that's only because he can't figure out how to get rid of him.
He never asked Crowley to move in with him after he left Lisa. He liked being on his own, because when there was nobody around he didn't have to pretend there was a single thought in his head that wasn't about Sam.
One night, when he couldn't sleep, he went downstairs to get a glass of water and found Crowley's overcoat draped over the back of the couch, while Crowley sat on the couch, drinking Dean's whiskey and watching Dean's TV.
"Missed me?" said Crowley, smiling.
Dean frowned at him, got his glass of water and went back upstairs, calling back,
"Turn the freaking TV down. Some of us are try'na sleep."
:::
The first deal is the hardest.
"Deals are wonderful, magical things," says Crowley. "Everyone loves a deal. Everyone's happy with a deal. Not like a compromise, where you have to make do. No, just lots of giving. You give me something, I give you something. Everybody's smiling."
"Oh yeah," said Dean. "I particularly remember smiling when hellhounds cracked my chest open."
Crowley shrugs. He's not hot, Dean thinks. Not unless you look at him out of the corner of your eye. He's slightly balding and has apple cheeks when he smiles, and neither of these things detracts from his general air of wickedness. He looks like a cherub from Hell.
"That's your fault for not properly negotiating the terms of the deal you made. It wasn't even in the small print."
"Whatever. Point stands without a deal. If you're eating my food, you can put your damn dishes in the sink after."
Dean puts the last of the dishes in the rack. Soap bubbles braceleting his wrists, he turns to pick up the towel, and finds Crowley standing very close instead.
"I will, Dean. Happily. You see, you want something, and I'm saying I'll give it to you. It's a deal already. We just have to seal it. You know how we seal it, don't you?"
His eyes focus on Dean's mouth, intent and wanting like every dumb fucker that's lusted after his mouth before, and Dean thinks, what the hell, what’s the worse that can happen? Sam's already dead, isn't he?
He ducks his head, knocks his lips against Crowley's, and is away again when Crowley's hand snaps out to catch him.
He wraps his hands in the towel, knotting his trembling fingers in the material, and, his back to Crowley, says, "Deal."
:::
Dean wants the fridge to cut out those weird whining noises, and Crowley wants Dean to put the milk in the cup after the tea, not before it. They seal it with a kiss. Crowley's got him cornered that time. He rises up on his tiptoes, clutches Dean's face and shoves his tongue in Dean's mouth. Dean pushes him off, swearing, breathing hard, and resents the fridge for the rest of the day for putting him in that position.
Then there's the virus on the computer Dean can't get rid of, and the marathon of World War Two documentaries on TV that weekend that Crowley wants to watch. That's another kiss. Crowley backs Dean into the arm of the couch, and keeps going, until Dean's knees buckle and he's pinned down by a demon who wants his mouth and whose hand is inexplicably between Dean's thighs. Once he finally manages to throw Crowley off, Dean punches him.
When Dean needs some hunters to forget where he is, he submits to being kissed in Crowley's lap, sitting astride his thighs. Crowley's are hands on his ass, petting him and squeezing, rubbing. Dean hunches over him, grips the lapels of his expensive shirt, makes good on his end of the bargain. He can't say it's not a good deal.
Crowley's a really good kisser. I've had a lot of practice, he says, after Dean's been kissed so stupid he actually comments on it, but he looks pleased. He'll kiss Dean's upper lip, and then his lower lip, and then he'll kiss the corner where they meet. He'll tonguefuck Dean for ten whole minutes, biting and sucking while his hands turn Dean's mouth this way and that, until Dean's shaking and panting for breath, then he'll knock him out with a tender, close-mouthed brush of lips.
:::
"I need more cereal. The kind with the nutty bits. You can have first shower tomorrow morning."
Dean leans in to drop a kiss on Crowley's cheek as he passes. It's unsettlingly domestic, and Dean would beat himself to death with a spoon before he allowed anyone else in the world to witness it.
But Crowley tilts his face away. "Sorry, darling. The pound's gone up, the dollar's gone down."
Dean raises his eyebrows, unimpressed and impatient. "What are you saying?"
Crowley's smile is serpentine. He's sprawled on Dean's couch, feet up on the coffee table. "I'm saying, change in business practices."
Dean squares his stance, and folds his arms across his chest. If Crowley thinks that just because he can make Dean moan, Dean won't kick his ass for trying to buy his soul, then he's going to be one very disappointed demon.
"Oh yeah?" he says.
"Yes," says Crowley. "We're looking for more than just a kiss on the dotted line."
He spreads his legs, and Dean's gaze drops before he can help himself. He swallows back the sudden wetness in his mouth, ignores the unexpected clench of his balls.
"Okay," says Dean hoarsely.
:::
Crowley presses his cock down on the flat of Dean's tongue, pushing the wetness gathered at the head into Dean's mouth, smearing it in until Dean can taste him, tangy and not too pleasant. The circle of Dean's fingers at the fat base of Crowley's dick stop him from fucking in too deep, for now. Crowley's happy to have his hand in Dean's hair, his other stroking the bump in Dean's cheek where Dean's mouth is all full up of his cock, lips stretched too wide around him.
Slick bursts of precome smear Dean's tongue occasionally, sticky and hot, and Dean sucks a little harder, grins at the noise Crowley makes, a cut off groan. Dean licks the underside, rubbing his tongue at the thick ridge of the vein, then, one hand gripping Crowley's knee to steady himself, he leans deeper into the open v of Crowley's legs.
There's traffic on the road outside. It's sunny. Dean's on his knees in his living room, head bobbing between a demon's thighs, while he slurps and stuffs his mouth full, wondering if he'd be able to take Crowley's dick in his throat.
Crowley's hips hump forward on the couch, the cheap leather squeaking under him, and Dean's mouth gets a lot fuller as Crowley shoves the full length of his dick in and in and in. He's so hard between Dean's lips it's not comfortable anymore, and Dean would pull off and tell him he doesn't want the damn cereal anyway, except it's also kind of good, trying to breathe while Crowley's got his hand twisted in his hair, refusing to let Dean go until he's fucked Dean's mouth sloppy.
He's entirely unapologetic when he shoots his load, fills Dean's mouth so much he's got come leaking out of the corners, dribbling down his chin, leaving him hot and messy and aching. Just sits up and swoops in to steal a kiss from Dean's fucked mouth.
:::
Sometimes Dean wonders if this is how things started with Sam and Ruby. He wonders what Sam would say about this situation Dean's got going with Crowley.
He also wonders what stupid way Sam would be wearing his hair these days, whether he'd still pick the pepper cubes out of his salad shaker, still shake the creases out of his dress pants before they got crumpled up in the bottom of his duffle.
:::
They're sealing the deal regarding the future temperature of the water in the shower. Dean is still wet and slippery, and he's panting and shuddering as Crowley kisses and sucks the beads of moisture off his throat. His towel is discarded on the floor, and he feels awesomely slutty to be standing in the hallway naked, being kissed and touched and rubbed against by an older guy in an expensive suit.
The Crowley's wandering hands wander off the reservation. His finger squirms between the cheeks of Dean's ass, pokes at his tight, clenched hole, then dips knuckle-deep in.
"Oh," says Crowley. "How about that?"
Dean knees him in the groin and stalks off.
:::
For three weeks, there are no deals, because all Crowley is interested in is fucking Dean's ass. He doesn't shut up about it. Wheedling and threatening, and offering Dean deals for everything from eternal youth to the ownership of a large tropical island.
Dean's not dealing.
"Oh come on," says Crowley. "I'll be gentle."
"No, you won't," Dean tells him bluntly, "because it's not happening."
He dunks the sponge back into the bucket of water, squeezes out the excess, then sweeps it across the hood of the Impala. The sunshine is warm on his back, dazzling in the Impala's black chrome. In the watery reflection, he sees himself, small and blurred out of shape. He tenses as Crowley's reflection creeps up close behind.
Then Crowley's gone.
:::
Dean gets used to being alone again. He never finds Hitler on his TV, or empty glasses with a smear of whiskey at the bottom.
The fridge starts whining plaintively again, like a dog that misses its master.
Dean would miss Crowley if he had room in his heart to miss anyone who wasn't Sam. He thinks though, maybe, he misses someone kissing him.
:::
It's Fall and the leaves are blocking up the gutter. Dean puts a ladder against the side of the house, and takes a bucket up with him. Up here, he can see the sea, waves frilled with white lace, and he can see the sky stretch out and up. Surely, there should be peace inside of Dean now.
"Interested in a deal?" says Crowley, at the foot of the ladder. "Make me a cup of tea and I'll get rid of the leaves in your gutter."
"Forget it," says Dean. But he comes down the ladder while Crowley steadies it, goes into the kitchen and takes out the teabags.
They sit on opposite sides of the kitchen table: Crowley cradling his cup between his hands, and Dean waiting for the next assault on his ass. He doesn't fail to register that the fridge shuts up once Crowley walks in the room.
"I have something you want," says Crowley.
Dean shrugs. "I don't want anything." He smiles humorlessly at Crowley's unimpressed eyebrow raise. "Hey, man, I got rhythm and I got music. Who could ask for anything more?"
"Someone who's not Fred Astaire?"
It's cold in the kitchen. Dean rubs his arms and looks away from Crowley. "You can't give me what I want," he says.
There's the clink of a cup as Crowley sets his cup down. Then he's reaching across the table to Dean, the pad of his thumb dragging lightly across Dean's lower lip. He tilts Dean's face towards him, and Dean lets him.
"No," he agrees. "But I know a secret." He leans in closer, and his breath is warm on Dean's mouth. His eyes are dark and inhuman. "Make a deal with me, Dean," he says.
:::
They fuck in Dean's bed.
Dean got himself ready in the bathroom first, working slick fingers between his legs, and when he went back in the bedroom Crowley was neatly hanging his shirt on a hanger, which was weird, because Dean doesn't own any hangers.
Dean puts himself on all fours, so he can stare at the wall while Crowley does whatever the hell he wants. But what Crowley wants is to kiss the nape of Dean's neck, down the path of his spine, to catch Dean's hips in his hands while he sucks on Dean's fingered open hole. There's a touch of soft middle-aged spread in his body, but the sharp little stab of his tongue into Dean's asshole reminds him that everybody in Hell just loves rough sex.
Dean bites his lip, bows his head to the pillow. His dick is half-hard.
Crowley's thumbs dig into the curve of his ass while he keeps Dean spread open for him, pushing his face between the cheeks and loudly, messily, dirtily eating Dean out. There's the warm wetness of Crowley's spit dribbling down Dean's thighs.
Just as Dean's getting into it, even rocking his hips back into it a little, Crowley pulls away and laughs.
"My, my, someone's an eager boy."
"Go to Hell," Dean spits, and he means it in the most literal sense.
Crowley drapes himself over Dean's back, not as firm or muscled as Dean but not at all soft like a woman either, and there's the thick, wetness of his cock bumping against the dip at the base of Dean's spine to remind Dean that it is most definitely him that's about to get fucked.
He nuzzles Dean's cheek, ridiculously affectionate, and murmurs, "Only if I can take you with me, sweetheart."
Dean would argue that, except Crowley chooses that moment to knock Dean's knees further apart, dipping him lower to the bed, until his ass is pushed up and back into the air.
For a moment, Dean has nothing but the weight of Crowley on his back, and the bobbing movement of Crowley's shadow on the wall in front of him. Then there's a brush of Crowley's hand between his legs, something nudging against his hole, bullying its way in.
"Hope you don't mind if I ride you bare," says Crowley, as he fills Dean's ass with cock, a long slide of heat and hardness that drives deep into Dean. Crowley groans, shoves his hips against Dean's ass, and Dean's breath huffs out of him.
He can feel Crowley stuffed deep up inside of him, hot and insistent, and he's only just starting to get used to it when Crowley rocks back, says, "Your arsehole looks smashing like this," and fucks back in.
Dean smashes his face into the pillow to stifle his wail. He's grateful the position doesn't allow him to get his hands on Crowley, because he's not sure whether he'd be punching him or hanging onto him.
Not that Dean is stupid enough to believe a demon's promises, but Crowley is not gentle. He's not cruel with Dean's body, just greedy and thoughtless. He rides Dean hard and fast, jabbing his dick in deep deep deep with sloppy, slapping sounds. Dean's knees are burning against the wrinkles in the bedsheets. His ass is hot, profoundly full, and there are sparks of sensation that make his whole body shiver. He hangs onto the bed desperately while Crowley pounds into him.
"Shame we didn't do this with you on your back. It'd be nice to be kissing you right now." Crowley's a little out of breath, but his hands are still tight on Dean's hips, clawing into the rounds of his ass so he can watch the pink clutch of Dean's asshole clinging to his cock.
He makes up for his inability to reach Dean's mouth by kissing everywhere else. And when he's not kissing, he's sucking marks into Dean's skin, sloppy with spit and just a little bruised by teeth. He's strong enough to pull Dean right back into each shove of his dick, so even as Dean's whole body is being ridden up the bed, Crowley's dragging him back where he wants him.
Dean's honestly not sure how much more he can take. He presses his cheek to the pillow, stares desperately at the far wall, as his consciousness settles into nothing but the weight of Crowley on top of him, and the thickness of him in Dean's ass.
"So what's the secret?" he grinds out.
There's a hitch in Crowley's breathing, and then he's screwing deep into Dean, dick punching into him, holding him snug against his hips, his balls pressed to Dean's ass and his mouth open and hot against Dean's shoulder-blade, while he fills Dean with come, dick pulsing and spurting inside of him. There's no condom to catch it, just Crowley's load emptied into him, blindingly intimate.
"Secret," Dean hisses. "What's the secret?"
His cheeks are wet and his dick's still hard, because his body apparently doesn't have a problem with a demon using it as a fucktoy, and Crowley's panting like an animal over the knobs of Dean's spine.
Then Crowley's hands flex on his hips, and let go. His cock pops out of Dean's ass with a squelch, and there's a little flood of wetness down Dean's thigh, leaving him filthy and used, and still on edge.
Crowley leans over him, rosy-cheeked and dark-eyed and unarguably wicked in the way he's grinning.
"Sam's in Fort Worth, Texas," he says, and steals one last kiss.
~end
I'm your villain
(Dean/Crowley, nc-17, 2.5k, dub-con overtones)
The only thing of the old life that Dean keeps is Crowley, and that's only because he can't figure out how to get rid of him.
He never asked Crowley to move in with him after he left Lisa. He liked being on his own, because when there was nobody around he didn't have to pretend there was a single thought in his head that wasn't about Sam.
One night, when he couldn't sleep, he went downstairs to get a glass of water and found Crowley's overcoat draped over the back of the couch, while Crowley sat on the couch, drinking Dean's whiskey and watching Dean's TV.
"Missed me?" said Crowley, smiling.
Dean frowned at him, got his glass of water and went back upstairs, calling back,
"Turn the freaking TV down. Some of us are try'na sleep."
:::
The first deal is the hardest.
"Deals are wonderful, magical things," says Crowley. "Everyone loves a deal. Everyone's happy with a deal. Not like a compromise, where you have to make do. No, just lots of giving. You give me something, I give you something. Everybody's smiling."
"Oh yeah," said Dean. "I particularly remember smiling when hellhounds cracked my chest open."
Crowley shrugs. He's not hot, Dean thinks. Not unless you look at him out of the corner of your eye. He's slightly balding and has apple cheeks when he smiles, and neither of these things detracts from his general air of wickedness. He looks like a cherub from Hell.
"That's your fault for not properly negotiating the terms of the deal you made. It wasn't even in the small print."
"Whatever. Point stands without a deal. If you're eating my food, you can put your damn dishes in the sink after."
Dean puts the last of the dishes in the rack. Soap bubbles braceleting his wrists, he turns to pick up the towel, and finds Crowley standing very close instead.
"I will, Dean. Happily. You see, you want something, and I'm saying I'll give it to you. It's a deal already. We just have to seal it. You know how we seal it, don't you?"
His eyes focus on Dean's mouth, intent and wanting like every dumb fucker that's lusted after his mouth before, and Dean thinks, what the hell, what’s the worse that can happen? Sam's already dead, isn't he?
He ducks his head, knocks his lips against Crowley's, and is away again when Crowley's hand snaps out to catch him.
He wraps his hands in the towel, knotting his trembling fingers in the material, and, his back to Crowley, says, "Deal."
:::
Dean wants the fridge to cut out those weird whining noises, and Crowley wants Dean to put the milk in the cup after the tea, not before it. They seal it with a kiss. Crowley's got him cornered that time. He rises up on his tiptoes, clutches Dean's face and shoves his tongue in Dean's mouth. Dean pushes him off, swearing, breathing hard, and resents the fridge for the rest of the day for putting him in that position.
Then there's the virus on the computer Dean can't get rid of, and the marathon of World War Two documentaries on TV that weekend that Crowley wants to watch. That's another kiss. Crowley backs Dean into the arm of the couch, and keeps going, until Dean's knees buckle and he's pinned down by a demon who wants his mouth and whose hand is inexplicably between Dean's thighs. Once he finally manages to throw Crowley off, Dean punches him.
When Dean needs some hunters to forget where he is, he submits to being kissed in Crowley's lap, sitting astride his thighs. Crowley's are hands on his ass, petting him and squeezing, rubbing. Dean hunches over him, grips the lapels of his expensive shirt, makes good on his end of the bargain. He can't say it's not a good deal.
Crowley's a really good kisser. I've had a lot of practice, he says, after Dean's been kissed so stupid he actually comments on it, but he looks pleased. He'll kiss Dean's upper lip, and then his lower lip, and then he'll kiss the corner where they meet. He'll tonguefuck Dean for ten whole minutes, biting and sucking while his hands turn Dean's mouth this way and that, until Dean's shaking and panting for breath, then he'll knock him out with a tender, close-mouthed brush of lips.
:::
"I need more cereal. The kind with the nutty bits. You can have first shower tomorrow morning."
Dean leans in to drop a kiss on Crowley's cheek as he passes. It's unsettlingly domestic, and Dean would beat himself to death with a spoon before he allowed anyone else in the world to witness it.
But Crowley tilts his face away. "Sorry, darling. The pound's gone up, the dollar's gone down."
Dean raises his eyebrows, unimpressed and impatient. "What are you saying?"
Crowley's smile is serpentine. He's sprawled on Dean's couch, feet up on the coffee table. "I'm saying, change in business practices."
Dean squares his stance, and folds his arms across his chest. If Crowley thinks that just because he can make Dean moan, Dean won't kick his ass for trying to buy his soul, then he's going to be one very disappointed demon.
"Oh yeah?" he says.
"Yes," says Crowley. "We're looking for more than just a kiss on the dotted line."
He spreads his legs, and Dean's gaze drops before he can help himself. He swallows back the sudden wetness in his mouth, ignores the unexpected clench of his balls.
"Okay," says Dean hoarsely.
:::
Crowley presses his cock down on the flat of Dean's tongue, pushing the wetness gathered at the head into Dean's mouth, smearing it in until Dean can taste him, tangy and not too pleasant. The circle of Dean's fingers at the fat base of Crowley's dick stop him from fucking in too deep, for now. Crowley's happy to have his hand in Dean's hair, his other stroking the bump in Dean's cheek where Dean's mouth is all full up of his cock, lips stretched too wide around him.
Slick bursts of precome smear Dean's tongue occasionally, sticky and hot, and Dean sucks a little harder, grins at the noise Crowley makes, a cut off groan. Dean licks the underside, rubbing his tongue at the thick ridge of the vein, then, one hand gripping Crowley's knee to steady himself, he leans deeper into the open v of Crowley's legs.
There's traffic on the road outside. It's sunny. Dean's on his knees in his living room, head bobbing between a demon's thighs, while he slurps and stuffs his mouth full, wondering if he'd be able to take Crowley's dick in his throat.
Crowley's hips hump forward on the couch, the cheap leather squeaking under him, and Dean's mouth gets a lot fuller as Crowley shoves the full length of his dick in and in and in. He's so hard between Dean's lips it's not comfortable anymore, and Dean would pull off and tell him he doesn't want the damn cereal anyway, except it's also kind of good, trying to breathe while Crowley's got his hand twisted in his hair, refusing to let Dean go until he's fucked Dean's mouth sloppy.
He's entirely unapologetic when he shoots his load, fills Dean's mouth so much he's got come leaking out of the corners, dribbling down his chin, leaving him hot and messy and aching. Just sits up and swoops in to steal a kiss from Dean's fucked mouth.
:::
Sometimes Dean wonders if this is how things started with Sam and Ruby. He wonders what Sam would say about this situation Dean's got going with Crowley.
He also wonders what stupid way Sam would be wearing his hair these days, whether he'd still pick the pepper cubes out of his salad shaker, still shake the creases out of his dress pants before they got crumpled up in the bottom of his duffle.
:::
They're sealing the deal regarding the future temperature of the water in the shower. Dean is still wet and slippery, and he's panting and shuddering as Crowley kisses and sucks the beads of moisture off his throat. His towel is discarded on the floor, and he feels awesomely slutty to be standing in the hallway naked, being kissed and touched and rubbed against by an older guy in an expensive suit.
The Crowley's wandering hands wander off the reservation. His finger squirms between the cheeks of Dean's ass, pokes at his tight, clenched hole, then dips knuckle-deep in.
"Oh," says Crowley. "How about that?"
Dean knees him in the groin and stalks off.
:::
For three weeks, there are no deals, because all Crowley is interested in is fucking Dean's ass. He doesn't shut up about it. Wheedling and threatening, and offering Dean deals for everything from eternal youth to the ownership of a large tropical island.
Dean's not dealing.
"Oh come on," says Crowley. "I'll be gentle."
"No, you won't," Dean tells him bluntly, "because it's not happening."
He dunks the sponge back into the bucket of water, squeezes out the excess, then sweeps it across the hood of the Impala. The sunshine is warm on his back, dazzling in the Impala's black chrome. In the watery reflection, he sees himself, small and blurred out of shape. He tenses as Crowley's reflection creeps up close behind.
Then Crowley's gone.
:::
Dean gets used to being alone again. He never finds Hitler on his TV, or empty glasses with a smear of whiskey at the bottom.
The fridge starts whining plaintively again, like a dog that misses its master.
Dean would miss Crowley if he had room in his heart to miss anyone who wasn't Sam. He thinks though, maybe, he misses someone kissing him.
:::
It's Fall and the leaves are blocking up the gutter. Dean puts a ladder against the side of the house, and takes a bucket up with him. Up here, he can see the sea, waves frilled with white lace, and he can see the sky stretch out and up. Surely, there should be peace inside of Dean now.
"Interested in a deal?" says Crowley, at the foot of the ladder. "Make me a cup of tea and I'll get rid of the leaves in your gutter."
"Forget it," says Dean. But he comes down the ladder while Crowley steadies it, goes into the kitchen and takes out the teabags.
They sit on opposite sides of the kitchen table: Crowley cradling his cup between his hands, and Dean waiting for the next assault on his ass. He doesn't fail to register that the fridge shuts up once Crowley walks in the room.
"I have something you want," says Crowley.
Dean shrugs. "I don't want anything." He smiles humorlessly at Crowley's unimpressed eyebrow raise. "Hey, man, I got rhythm and I got music. Who could ask for anything more?"
"Someone who's not Fred Astaire?"
It's cold in the kitchen. Dean rubs his arms and looks away from Crowley. "You can't give me what I want," he says.
There's the clink of a cup as Crowley sets his cup down. Then he's reaching across the table to Dean, the pad of his thumb dragging lightly across Dean's lower lip. He tilts Dean's face towards him, and Dean lets him.
"No," he agrees. "But I know a secret." He leans in closer, and his breath is warm on Dean's mouth. His eyes are dark and inhuman. "Make a deal with me, Dean," he says.
:::
They fuck in Dean's bed.
Dean got himself ready in the bathroom first, working slick fingers between his legs, and when he went back in the bedroom Crowley was neatly hanging his shirt on a hanger, which was weird, because Dean doesn't own any hangers.
Dean puts himself on all fours, so he can stare at the wall while Crowley does whatever the hell he wants. But what Crowley wants is to kiss the nape of Dean's neck, down the path of his spine, to catch Dean's hips in his hands while he sucks on Dean's fingered open hole. There's a touch of soft middle-aged spread in his body, but the sharp little stab of his tongue into Dean's asshole reminds him that everybody in Hell just loves rough sex.
Dean bites his lip, bows his head to the pillow. His dick is half-hard.
Crowley's thumbs dig into the curve of his ass while he keeps Dean spread open for him, pushing his face between the cheeks and loudly, messily, dirtily eating Dean out. There's the warm wetness of Crowley's spit dribbling down Dean's thighs.
Just as Dean's getting into it, even rocking his hips back into it a little, Crowley pulls away and laughs.
"My, my, someone's an eager boy."
"Go to Hell," Dean spits, and he means it in the most literal sense.
Crowley drapes himself over Dean's back, not as firm or muscled as Dean but not at all soft like a woman either, and there's the thick, wetness of his cock bumping against the dip at the base of Dean's spine to remind Dean that it is most definitely him that's about to get fucked.
He nuzzles Dean's cheek, ridiculously affectionate, and murmurs, "Only if I can take you with me, sweetheart."
Dean would argue that, except Crowley chooses that moment to knock Dean's knees further apart, dipping him lower to the bed, until his ass is pushed up and back into the air.
For a moment, Dean has nothing but the weight of Crowley on his back, and the bobbing movement of Crowley's shadow on the wall in front of him. Then there's a brush of Crowley's hand between his legs, something nudging against his hole, bullying its way in.
"Hope you don't mind if I ride you bare," says Crowley, as he fills Dean's ass with cock, a long slide of heat and hardness that drives deep into Dean. Crowley groans, shoves his hips against Dean's ass, and Dean's breath huffs out of him.
He can feel Crowley stuffed deep up inside of him, hot and insistent, and he's only just starting to get used to it when Crowley rocks back, says, "Your arsehole looks smashing like this," and fucks back in.
Dean smashes his face into the pillow to stifle his wail. He's grateful the position doesn't allow him to get his hands on Crowley, because he's not sure whether he'd be punching him or hanging onto him.
Not that Dean is stupid enough to believe a demon's promises, but Crowley is not gentle. He's not cruel with Dean's body, just greedy and thoughtless. He rides Dean hard and fast, jabbing his dick in deep deep deep with sloppy, slapping sounds. Dean's knees are burning against the wrinkles in the bedsheets. His ass is hot, profoundly full, and there are sparks of sensation that make his whole body shiver. He hangs onto the bed desperately while Crowley pounds into him.
"Shame we didn't do this with you on your back. It'd be nice to be kissing you right now." Crowley's a little out of breath, but his hands are still tight on Dean's hips, clawing into the rounds of his ass so he can watch the pink clutch of Dean's asshole clinging to his cock.
He makes up for his inability to reach Dean's mouth by kissing everywhere else. And when he's not kissing, he's sucking marks into Dean's skin, sloppy with spit and just a little bruised by teeth. He's strong enough to pull Dean right back into each shove of his dick, so even as Dean's whole body is being ridden up the bed, Crowley's dragging him back where he wants him.
Dean's honestly not sure how much more he can take. He presses his cheek to the pillow, stares desperately at the far wall, as his consciousness settles into nothing but the weight of Crowley on top of him, and the thickness of him in Dean's ass.
"So what's the secret?" he grinds out.
There's a hitch in Crowley's breathing, and then he's screwing deep into Dean, dick punching into him, holding him snug against his hips, his balls pressed to Dean's ass and his mouth open and hot against Dean's shoulder-blade, while he fills Dean with come, dick pulsing and spurting inside of him. There's no condom to catch it, just Crowley's load emptied into him, blindingly intimate.
"Secret," Dean hisses. "What's the secret?"
His cheeks are wet and his dick's still hard, because his body apparently doesn't have a problem with a demon using it as a fucktoy, and Crowley's panting like an animal over the knobs of Dean's spine.
Then Crowley's hands flex on his hips, and let go. His cock pops out of Dean's ass with a squelch, and there's a little flood of wetness down Dean's thigh, leaving him filthy and used, and still on edge.
Crowley leans over him, rosy-cheeked and dark-eyed and unarguably wicked in the way he's grinning.
"Sam's in Fort Worth, Texas," he says, and steals one last kiss.
~end