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Safehouse III

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This is not the safehouse. And it is not Crowley’s bedroom. Although it is a bedroom, and Crowley is in it.
Castiel has not been back to the safehouse in a few weeks. He has simply been too busy, with work of high enough importance that he dare not neglect it. Perhaps, he now considers, this is Crowley’s method of capturing his attention.
It is working.
He remains invisible, for now. Perched impossibly atop the mirror on the lavish dressing table, dismissing gravity with barely a thought when it tugs on the ends of his coat like a child. He can’t be seen, certainly by the young, seemingly-human man who lets Crowley push him onto the bed and grins up at him with easy confidence and lewd sexuality.
Crowley, he thinks, may sense his arrival. A minute flicker of the hotel lights; a tug, an ache in the empty places Castiel left in him last time. A little extra brightness, up here in the place where wall meets cornice, a flare of something blinding, something that hurts him to be near.
Yes. Crowley is aware of him. There’s a thread between them, now, something slippery and silver, where they’ve each left traces of themselves in the other. That thread shimmers now. Heats - Castiel shivers. Yes, Crowley is surely aware of him, but perhaps it is on so subconscious a level that he is too preoccupied to truly register the third presence in the room.


"So this is the penthouse?" The young man gives the room with its cream and white decor an ostentatious once-over before smirking up at Crowley.
"Master suite." Crowley runs fingers through the man's thick, dark hair and the young man snorts a laugh, but leans into the touch.
"What's the difference?" His accent is thick. New York. 
"This is bigger."
"I hope it ain't the only thing."
With Crowley's back turned to him, Castiel can still visualise his expression, can taste it in his answering purr. "Oh darling, be quite assured it's not."
Castiel feels nothing so human as jealousy. What he feels can more accurately be called curiosity - but the patient, purely observational, angelic sort of curiosity; the sort that can have him watching dust motes for decades. He's not sure what Crowley is doing, or why Castiel is here seeing it. He has no concept of monogamy, knows it only as something that is commonly valued in many human cultures. He couldn't define the tie between him and Crowley in human terms, couldn't fit the two of them into any of the labels he knows Dean would apply to them if he were aware of their... interactions recently. Still, there must be some reason, some message that Crowley means to convey by calling Castiel here to witness him cupping the young man's jaw in his vessel's big hand, tilting his head just so, just the right angle for Crowley to dip and press his lips slowly, decadently to the other's.
The young man leans back with it, onto the bed, sinking onto his elbows as if Crowley's presence has a gravity that is pressing him down, gentle but inescapable. And Castiel thinks he knows how that feels. Wonders if this is how they appeared too, from outside. No. The young man on the bed is smaller than his vessel, slight and smooth-skinned, the hands of Crowley's vessel easily encircling his wrists. "You gonna prove it to me?"
"Mmmm..." Crowley exhales a little rumbling noise of approval even as he firmly removes the man's hand from his crotch. "Behave, now, kitten. Nice things are worth savouring, don't you think? This place doesn't charge by the hour, you know."
Castiel finds himself leaning forward, as if something in him subconsciously wants to be closer. He sees the young man's eyes widen, hears the breathlessness in his voice when he replies, "Yeah," and notes that he doesn't try to tug his hands free of Crowley's grip. "Fuck. Whatever you say." The man licks his lips, gives Crowley a grin that is flirtatious, Castiel thinks. Castiel is not very good with facial expressions, still, although he is getting better. He thinks he sees lust on this young man's face. Certainly he feels it, rolling from both of them like something tidal, inevitable.
"Correct answer. Cookie for you." The man's breath hitches, breaks in a little moan as Crowley leans in again, lips at his throat. His head tips back, mouth popping open as his eyes slip closed and his hips lift, as if magnetised, towards Crowley's. Castiel's lips part, too. His head tilts. All he can really see is the broad, black-clad back of Crowley's vessel, but the atmosphere in the room is so charged it buzzes. 
"Yeah... Oh, God, papi... You can leave marks, I don't mind." The man's face is slack already. Blissed out. 
Crowley pulls away slightly. Castiel can taste his amusement, dancing over the simmering thickness of his lust. Above the wide collar of his shirt the man's shoulder and neck is pink with teeth-marks, blossoming bruises. Crowley's mouth softens in a devious smile. "I never leave marks." When his lips pass over the man's throat again, the skin in their wake is left unblemished, pristine again. "I'm far too good."
The energy between them is aggressively sexual. Castiel lets it wash over him, sink through his skin and pool in the hollow spaces inside him - the angel that folds itself into the vessel, that contains entire cathedrals made of nothing but sound and light. The vessel, he notices absently, responds in its own ways. For once, he lets it happen. Lets pupils dilate, the pulse quicken, the penis start to fill and thicken. He needs to be careful. Too much will make his presence here too obvious, obtrusive. "I bet you are," the man on the bed says, his voice rough with a desire Castiel can't help echoing.
"What would you bet?" Crowley noses at the crook of the young man's neck and the man gives a soft breathless laugh.
"Name your price, papi, just don't stop that thing you're doing."
"Your soul?" Crowley's voice is velvet. The man groans.
" Oh yeah - anything, just take it take the whole lot... ah..." He trails off into incoherence as Crowley's right hand disappears between them. 
Castiel can't help the uneasiness he feels at the mention of the man's soul. The disapproval. It's impossible for him to ever forget that Crowley is a demon; not when his entire being reacts to him in the way it does, not when it hurts to touch him without the protective barrier of their vessels - aches and burns, feels viscerally wrong. But this reminder is sharp, and Castiel has to fight down his desire to intervene. His disapprobation floods the hotel room.
He can feel Crowley's smile. Dangerous, mesmerising. Crowley sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging the young man's jeans and underwear down: he lifts his hips to help Crowley strip him. Willing. Trusting. "What a pity that souls are just a fairy-tale." 
"You think- ah! Fuck! Yes..." So easily distracted by Crowley's mouth on him once more. Crowley hooks his hands behind the man's knees, drags him roughly to the edge of the bed - he seems to like that. Spreads his legs wider: Crowley knelt between buries his face between the young man's lithe thighs and the room is filled with the music of his moans. 

Humans are numb on so many levels. It is impossible for this man to sense how dangerous a creature Crowley is. A more primitive animal may be able to - some twitch of instinct might have it slipping away at his approach, shrinking from his touch instead of pressing into it, begging for it as this youth is, babbling obscenities and blasphemy. Crowley wants him to see this. So much is clear. The man's soul is clean, now, but too much contact with the demon will leave it sooty, blackened at the edges. Marked.
"Oh God, you're too good with that tongue." The man's fingers dig into the shoulders of Crowley's jacket as Crowley sits up. Licks a decadent wet stripe from base to tip of his jutting penis: that starts up the babbling again, as Crowley takes just the end into his mouth, bobs his head, shallow. The man appears less like Castiel's own vessel or Crowley's and more like the humans Castiel has observed in pornography, his tanned skin neatly divested of body hair. Crowley ducks his head, lower, smooth and sudden, and the man gives a choked gasp.
Castiel feels too tightly enclosed in his body. Coiled up like a snake about to strike. Crowley's partner seems utterly naked - open and willing, all parts of him visible. While Crowley, by contrast, is shielded by so many layers even Castiel can't see through them all; the clothing, the skin and bones and flesh he wears, the smoke; all of it hiding the creature he really is, that pitiful, beautiful, mangled thing Castiel was permitted to see so very briefly.
"Stop, stop it." The sudden urgency of the man's tone snaps Castiel to attention: but there's no pain or fear in the air; still just heady, greedy desire. "I don't wanna come yet. Want you inside me." Crowley releases him. The mouth of Crowley's vessel wet, rosy. The young man's movements are restless: he pushes his own shirt up, caresses his chest with his hands, hips circling and breath coming fast. His pulse flutters, bright and fragile as candle flame. "I wanna see you. Not shy are you, papi?"
"No, sweetheart." Crowley stands, bends over the bed, crowding him, one hand popping the young man’s shirt buttons one by one. "I'm not shy." He spreads the man's shirt open with both hands, palms sweeping skin, and the man murmurs his pleasure. When Crowley's hands withdraw to begin the removal of his vessel's clothing, his companion’s eyes are avid upon him.
Not shy. It both is and isn't a lie, Castiel thinks. Crowley feels no insecurity about his vessel, his prowess, his power or his position. But there are things he hides. Things you have to go inside of him to find.
As the clothes fall away, Castiel finds himself wanting to touch. It's a rare impulse, for him. Usually his wants are more complex, they go deeper below the surface. But Crowley's vessel has always captivated him - the dark hair on its torso, its thick waist and rosy nipples, the curve of its shoulders. It is satisfyingly solid. It makes Castiel want to grip and tug and stroke, to caress. To run his grace over the skin like a tongue, to brand him with it.
"Holy shit." The young man on the bed shuffles up onto his elbows, draws his lower lip between white teeth. "Ramon wasn't kidding about you." His hand sneaks down to his groin, cupping himself loosely, teasing.
Crowley laughs, low and brief, resting one knee on the bed. "A little tacky to kiss and tell, love, but I'd be lying if I said I'm not pleased that my reputation precedes me in this instance." His voice drops lower, husky and commanding. "Come here." And the man practically scrambles to crawl to him, to put his mouth on Crowley's erect penis. 
It's like a religious observance, the fervour with which the young man worship's Crowley's cock. The way he laves the thick shaft with his tongue, lets it rest in the damp velvet of his mouth. It's like a ritual. The rhythm of it, when he starts bobbing his head, the eagerness. The way he stares up at Crowley in adulation, cheeks hollowing and lips plump with arousal. Crowley tilts his head. Watches, eyes half-lidded, luxuriating and oddly un-moved. It looks for all the world as if his entire attention is focused on the man kneeling before him. It feels... "Angel, you are a sight for sore eyes."
For a moment, Castiel startles at the familiar pet name. His eyes snap to Crowley's, and in the space between one second and the next he is standing in front of the two of them, peering at Crowley, trying to work out if he can be seen. But then-
"Thank you," the man says, grinning at Crowley, and his mouth is wet and pink from its recent activities.
Crowley chuckles. He's still gazing down at his human partner, even as his essence crackles, yearns towards Castiel like the demon can't help it. His vessel's deft fingers caress the man's face, tousle his hair, angling him easily to rub the swollen head of Crowley's erection across his lips: he whines, a needy sound. Flicks his pink tongue out, lapping eagerly. Crowley is not looking at Castiel, in the same studious way in which actors in pornographic movies ignore the camera. "Gorgeous." Crowley's voice rasps, sweet. "I mean it. Angel Escovedo, it is a sin and a crime nobody else can see you right now."
The man's smile is sly, pleased. "You weren't joking you're not shy, hey."
"Would you enjoy that, kitten? Being watched." 
He pushes the man back onto the bed again. Arranges him, holds him down as he pants his pleasure. "Oh yeah, God, that's hot."

Castiel can't help but wonder at the name. Has Crowley selected this partner because of it? Or is it incidental, and the young man chosen for other reasons - his eyes, perhaps, which glitter so warmly as he gazes at Crowley. Or his hands, slender fingers that grasp Crowley tight to him. Or the way that he sighs in pleasure, a breathy almost-moan against the vessel's ear. Castiel doesn't have to dip too far into Angel's mind to know that he is enjoying the idea of being watched - he is broadcasting it clearly. Almost as clearly as the demon he's sharing a bed with.
"Turn around for me, love. On your knees. Show our audience." 
Crowley kisses the back of Angel's neck as he turns, hands gentle but firm on the man's trim waist, and Angel murmurs, "So fuckin' hot..." And his back arches when he drops his forehead to the spotless white sheets, presenting himself, dissolute and beautiful. 
"Good boy..." Crowley mouths the words against the graceful dip of his back, works open-mouthed kisses downwards. Spreads him with both palms, thumbs rubbing the spit-wet clench of his entrance.
Something in Castiel sparks, and the hotel lights flutter. Crowley is showing him this. Performing for him. Showing him the pretty boy he's enticed here, the filthy things he's doing to him. It's all for Castiel's benefit, and the mere thought of that makes him want unspeakable things. Wicked intimacies. On the bed, Angel starts at the flickering of the electric lights. Castiel reins himself in. Feels Crowley's pleasure, pride, hunger, even as his smile is hidden. Angel's back bows; he moans, loud, repetitive. Crowley is working him open with tongue and thumbs, a rhythmic undulation, each digit dipping inside in turn, twisting, withdrawing, mouth wet and insistent, coaxing him wider. 
Crowley is so different with this boy than he has ever been with Castiel. It's fascinating. Here he shows none of the masochism, none of the vulnerability he has let Castiel see. And yet there is a familiar generosity. A sensuality. Castiel can't help feeling for the thread between them and tugging on it. Letting Crowley feel him, feel how they are owned by each other.
It's the first hint of a loss of control he's seen during this encounter: Crowley pauses, as if for breath, a quiet little moan escaping his lips. He closes his eyes, the elegant arch of his brows creasing in a frown. It lasts just a moment. "Do you want me, Angel?" The tone is so familiar that Castiel wonders which of them he's really addressing. 
The man's response is breathless. Ruined. "Shit, yeah, papi, fuck me."
Crowley turns, so unexpectedly that Castiel is not prepared to stare into those golden eyes face-on. But it's clear that Crowley can't see him, not clearly; but oh, he knows Castiel's there as he sprawls gracefully on the bed, strokes himself idly and says, "You're going to ride me until you're spent, and then I'm going to take my fill of you."

Castiel wonders what Angel feels, when he straddles Crowley. He thinks of the first time, at Crowley's safe house, when Crowley had been inside him. It remains one of the most overwhelming experiences of Castiel's existence. Will Angel feel that? Is it always this way with Crowley's lovers?
"Holy shit... Ay, give me a moment... You're so big..."
It's not what Castiel understands to be romantic, or even arousing. But the light that sparks in Crowley's eyes looks almost amused, his voice holds what almost sounds like affection.
"I'll bet you say that to all the boys, cupcake."
"Boy? No, baby, you're all man..." He cuts off in a gasp, Crowley's hands firm on his hips, tipping him forward so Crowley can rub the head of his erection between the man's cheeks. Angel swallows, stammers nothing-words, as Crowley kisses him again, deep, and the young man seems to melt against him, moaning a broken sound into his open mouth as Crowley breaches him.
Crowley's affection for the boy is strong enough that Castiel feels swept up in it. He runs an invisible finger up Angel's spine, knowing he won't feel much beyond a shiver. And he's shuddering now, babbling, oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck and Castiel might suspect he was being harmed if he couldn't feel the strength of the lust rolling off him in great fierce waves. If he's supposed to be taking the active role in this part of the intercourse, Angel is not doing his job. Crowley has him, held steady by his narrow hips: Castiel knows how capable those broad hands are. Crowley's pelvis rolls, steady and careful, pressing himself up into the young man's body while Angel gasps and sobs in pleasure-effort. Until after long minutes, it seems he finally acclimatises and shakily begins to rock against Crowley's hips of his own volition, sinking deeper, picking up his pace. He's vocal. Noisy. So very human. Just a bit of rag between Castiel and Crowley, a momentary scrap of flesh around a diamond soul. Crowley holds Angel firmly, but also like something precious. It's oddly out of place in the anonymous, if lavish, hotel suite. Castiel flexes his wings. He feels restless; a little dizzy.
As Crowley holds on to the human with mortal hands, tendrils of him reach for Castiel, clinging, prickling like static. The familiar taste of the demon's arousal. "Yes... Like that, you look so good, sweetheart." His voice all doused in pleasure-warmth. Angel basks in his approval. His erection has somewhat wilted, but when Crowley wraps a hand around it, the young man gasps, redoubles his pace and his volume in time with Crowley's strict strokes.
Castiel flutters his wings. It's an instinctive movement - the angelic equivalent of batting his eyelashes. The air in the room is unmoved by them, incorporeal as they are, but the energy shivers, rushes in currents. Castiel is leaking from the neat confines of his vessel - little glimmers of him showing through at the edges. Where Crowley's smoke meets it, invisible lightning forks and hisses. Crowley is losing control. It strikes Castiel that he can recognise this now; this unravelling of the demon's composure. Grace shivers against magic and the youth impaled on Crowley's flesh gives an utterly broken cry and ejaculates, spilling pulse after pulse over Crowley's jumping fist. Crowley wastes no time. Angel is not given even a moment to catch his breath before Crowley has him on his back, pinned, driving into him steady and deep, as the man moans and sobs, a mess of delicious overstimulation.

Even with the slow unravelling of his control, Castiel knows that Crowley is holding back. That he could destroy this human easily if he didn't hold his own power in check. Castiel lays a hand on Crowley's back, palm against the skin, and feeds him just a little bit of grace. Lets him feel it, the burn if it, the sick-sweet pleasure and pain of it. A reward. An expression of gratitude for letting Castiel witness this. As soon as they touch, Crowley freezes, mouth open and chest heaving. It's a couple of seconds maybe, but it may as well be an eon. Then, abruptly, he pulls out of the man beneath him - Angel moans, body bowing gracefully, clenching around nothing - and brings himself to climax. His seed patters, pearly across the young man's flat belly. Angel murmurs, "Fuck... Oh fuck, yes." His fists twist in the sheets as he writhes, eyes closed, sated. 
Crowley is still. He looks around the room, lips parted and eyes wide, like he's searching for something. Just for a moment, before he exhales and lies down on the bed next to the boy.

He looks almost human, lying there. The pair of them have the same brightness, the same fragility. Castiel curls his vast wings around them, though they can't see the feathers over them like a canopy of leaves, or the overlapping metal scales of armour. Insubstantial. As barely-there as something half-remembered.
"Mmmm... I feel nice." 
Crowley turns his head to glance at the human at his side. His eyes are still wide. Glassy and shocked-looking. "I'd be a tad offended if you didn't, pet."
Angel laughs. A happy, uncomplicated sound. "Seen's as I think you just broke my asshole though."
Crowley chuckles. Runs a finger through the mess on the man's belly. "Please. Your arse has never had it so good." and Angel leans in to kiss him. Not like before. A quick, almost perfunctory, peck. 
"Uh-huh. I'm gonna give you my number, OK? Now I gotta..." He cranes his head to look down at himself, wrinkles his nose. "Ah man, I don't wanna move." Crowley sits. Slips from the bed to cross to a door. When he returns, he's carrying a box of tissues, which he sets between them before lying back down. "Thanks."
"You can take a shower if you like. It's just through there."
"Nah, man. I gotta get to a game at six. What time even is it?"
Crowley reaches across to the nightstand, retrieves a wristwatch. "Quarter to five."
"Ah, fuck." 
"I wish you'd stay, angel." Crowley says softly, and even though Castiel is not adept at reading the nuances of human tone and inflection, the way Crowley's essence reaches for him tells him that he's definitely the one being addressed this time.
The young man looks up from pulling on his jeans. "Aw, you're sweet. Here, do you got a pen?"
"Jacket, breast pocket."
Angel wrinkles his nose again when he retrieves it, a sleek black and gold fountain pen that he seems less than impressed with. He tangles his fingers with Crowley's, pulls his arm out straight and then inscribes a cell-phone number in big, wobbly digits, the length of Crowley's inner forearm. "Call me, papi, OK?" He blows a kiss as the door swings silently shut.
Castiel folds his wings and watches Angel go. Where does Crowley find these young men? Does he not get attached? Castiel fears he would, in the same circumstances. What sort of life does Angel lead?
As the door closes, he drops all pretense at invisibility.

Crowley thuds his head back on the deep downy pillows. He waves a palm over the writing on his arm and it disappears. When Castiel manifests, Crowley gives him a tired smile. "There you are, Feathers."
Castiel gazes between the door and the demon on the bed. The room is really very grand indeed: soft lighting from hidden sconces, thick curtains blocking the last of the afternoon daylight. Beneath Castiel's feet the pale cream carpet is thick as moss. "Your friend is interesting."
Crowley chuckles. Runs a palm over his face and stretches, showily. "I think 'friend' is rather strong a term, but he did have his charms, didn't he? Very bendy."
Crowley's vessel seems unaffected by Castiel's presence. But the smoky tendrils of him are still clinging to Castiel, and the thread between them is taut, as if Crowley is trying to prevent him from flying away. "Why am I here?" Castiel asks, bluntly.
The tendrils of Crowley's essence shiver at that. Hold more tightly. Perhaps his vessel even recoils a little. Crowley narrows his eyes. "I give up, why are you here? I figured you never mastered the noble art of knocking and then you stuck around for the floorshow."
Castiel tilts his head, puzzled. "You called to me. Did you not intend it?" He takes a step closer. "Was I not meant to enjoy watching you?" He lets his human eyes run up the length of Crowley's body.
"Enjoyed it, did you?" Crowley raises his eyebrows. Blatantly evades the question, his smile pleased, confident. Nothing like the demon inside, all hopeful beseeching. "You certainly were getting delightfully hands-on towards the end there."
"Yes," Castiel replies simply. He feels no need to dissemble. "I enjoyed it." He reaches out to touch Crowley's face, to cup his stubbled cheek in his vessel's hand. Crowley is warm to the touch. He feels like something living. "You are exquisite."
If Crowley was formulating some rejoinder or other, he doesn't come out with it. Leans into the touch of Castiel's vessel, his eyes slipping closed as he rubs his cheek against Castiel's palm. The glimpses of demon inside simmer, calm. "Was I supposed to make myself known?" Castiel asks eventually. "I didn't want to startle your human. But I admit I'm not entirely aware of the social conventions surrounding such encounters."
"No, love. You did just fine." Crowley's eyes blink open. He looks up at Castiel, then  tentatively pats the bed next to him. "Believe me, he knew you were there, alright. Maybe he didn't know what he was feeling, but he felt it."
Castiel sits awkwardly beside Crowley on the bed. Crowley lounges like a basking tiger, all lazy, predatory power. He inhabits his body utterly. Castiel wonders if he will ever tire of looking at it. "It was intriguing, watching you with him. The effect you have on him." Easy to imagine humans willingly giving up their souls to this demon.
Crowley, snug in his vessel, preens. Something deeper inside is uneasy though: Castiel can sense it, an icy draught in a warm space. "I play to my strengths, pet. I'm glad it was..." His smile tilts, "...instructional."
Castiel wants to touch Crowley. Really touch him, without the bone and breath and blood between them. You belong to me, he wants to say. And I to you. "Did you expect me to be jealous?"
His secretive little smile should be infuriating. "Maybe. A little." He turns to study Castiel's face and his smile spreads into a grin. "Weren't you even the tiniest bit?"
Castiel doesn't have to think at all before he says "No." He doesn't think he's created for jealousy. "I know you, inside and out. I have no reason for insecurity."
A flare of energy, conflicting panic and denial and hope, like the demon would exile him and cleave to him at once. Crowley's exterior: unruffled as ever. He makes a little scoffing noise. "Please. Nobody 'knows' me, hotshot." Then, as if acting out his contradiction, he leans his head against Castiel's shoulder. "...you didn't wish it was you with me at all?" It's difficult to tell whether he's mocking or not.
Castiel considers the question carefully. "I like touching you, Crowley," he says. "I enjoy it when we are intimate. But I didn't wish it was me with you today." He says this with the quiet air of confession. Forgive me, Crowley, for I have sinned. "I was curious. I wanted to watch you performing intercourse with someone else. With a human. I wanted to watch and not be involved, so that I could observe you more closely."
Crowley settles more comfortably against him, his vessel a soft contrast to Castiel's awkwardness. His tone holds its own kind of hesitant confession. "I wanted to show you what you're missing. And..." He clears his throat. "How different it is. With, you know." One hand vaguely indicates them both, currently flesh-bound. "It never used to mean anything, but now you're bloody there, every time. I can feel you, with every single one of them. Echoing inside me."
Castiel nods in affirmation. "I feel it too. When you lie with one of them, I feel it. Here." He pulls at the invisible cobweb-thin thread of grace and smoke between them - from Castiel to the traces of himself he left deep in Crowley. Even touching it feels intimate. Almost sexual.
Crowley closes his eyes. Swallows. His voice sounds slightly hoarse. "Do you like it? Should I... stop?"
Castiel touches Crowley's shut eyelids with his fingertips. "It's pleasurable," he murmurs. "You don't need to stop." It had been moderately distracting, at first, but Castiel is becoming accustomed to it. And it is fading with time and distance, the remnants he left in Crowley slowly dispersing. "The effects will disappear almost entirely, eventually. Unless the process is repeated."
"Would you like to... repeat the process?" His voice is too casual. Cautious. "I mean, loath am I to deprive you of any jollies you can come by, even vicariously." One hand smooths down the lapel of Castiel's jacket, but even with Crowley's vessel still naked, it doesn't feel like a sexual advance. "And darling, you know you're more than welcome to fill me up, anytime."
Castiel catches Crowley's hand in his own, and kisses the palm. "It's painful for you. Tiring." He knows that it's stating the obvious, but he can't help it. He's not sure if he intends it as warning or titillation, given Crowley's masochistic proclivities.
"FYI, you could always just spank me instead." Crowley bats his lashes, his smoky voice all practiced teasing. Castiel wonders if he can't be honest, or he won't. Or if he actually doesn't recognise what his essence is wordlessly howling: I want to be close to you.
"If you like," Castiel replies, as if Crowley had suggested a walk before dinner, or something equally as mundane. He's willing to give Crowley almost anything he desires.
Crowley licks his lips. For once, the gesture appears more nervous than predatory. "There's a lot of things I'd like, love."
Castiel attempts a shrug. He's getting better at human mannerisms. He knows they help when he's perceived as too strange, too alien. "Then make a list."
"I'll write a bloody novel." It's odd to see him hesitant after watching him with his human. How he leans up, thumb stroking along Castiel's jaw. Presses his lips to Castiel's lips, careful and controlled. Castiel lets himself be kissed, lets Crowley hold warm lips against his. Between their open mouths the air is full of static. It is unlike any human kiss. Outwardly calmer, stiller - although below the surface both hidden creatures are stirring, straining each towards the other. 
Crowley pulls back to look him. "I want to exhaust every possible option with you, Castiel, physical and metaphysical, and then I want to do it all over again. But first, I want a bath." He says the words, but he's not moving from the bed, his hands passing over Castiel's vessel as if he's unwilling to stop touching.
"Alright." It takes barely a thought to whisk Crowley away, slipping through the curls of time and space until they are once again in the opulent bathroom of Crowley's house.


Crowley's laugh is unprecedentedly unguarded, surprised and delighted. The unexpected flight has him holding on tighter, pressing full length against Castiel's vessel as they sway a little on arrival. Or perhaps that is not the reason why he holds on so tightly. "You know, my wallet's in that hotel room? Not to mention my clothes." He couldn't sound any less angry.
"Apologies," Castiel replies, contrite. "Would you like me to fetch them?" He rather likes Crowley's vessel without clothes, and isn't sure why the wallet is necessary for bathing.
Crowley takes a step closer: his vessel, though smaller, still somehow manages to crowd. He holds Castiel's gaze as he clicks his fingers theatrically, and a pile of black clothing falls with a soft thump to the marble tiles beside them. Crowley quirks a smile up at him. "You'd have gone, too, wouldn't you? If I'd asked you to fetch?"
Castiel nods. Of course he would have gone, if Crowley had asked him to. It would be such a simple request, when Castiel would agree to vastly more complex or difficult demands. Crowley is gazing at him with what he believes is fondness.
"What if I ask you get in the tub with me?" He seems to have forgotten his 'you must make all of your own decisions' approach of Castiel's previous visit.
The tub is huge, inky black marble that Castiel could spend weeks in if he allowed himself. "I would indulge you by agreeing," he says, and his clothing fades from his body, the bath instantly full of deliciously hot water. Castiel tilts his head, a gesture that seems to say after you.