Work Text:
When Crowley tells Dean to stop this idiocy and put on a pair of pants, Dean smiles a slow, lascivious smile. He pulls Crowley in for what should be a kiss but it’s more of a war, teeth and lips and tongue.
It’s excellent, on the surface of it. Dean’s young and built like Crowley hasn’t had in too damned long, mostly because of the Winchesters, in fact. He throws Crowley down on his own bed (alright, Crowley lets Dean Winchester throw him down on his own bed) and Dean rides cock like hemeans it, one hand fisted on Crowley’s chest and the other pulling at his own hard-on; Dean’s flushed and sweaty and he’s gorgeous.
Crowley doesn’t have a conscience, but when Dean’s had him…it has to be three times, all told—he slumps forward and there’s something in his eyes, something repugnant, something human.
He lets Crowley slide out of him and winces and starts gathering his clothes, all rushed fits of motion.
“Not that I didn’t thoroughly enjoy myself, Squirrel—“ Crowley starts, but Dean cuts him off.
“Not now, asshat.” Dean pulls on clothes with the same stop-start mechanics, like a dime-store windup toy. Crowley rolls over in bed and stretches out, but doesn’t make a move to leave. “Don’t we have shit we’re supposed to be doing?” It’s like Dean’s trying to sound the part of the hardened demon, but he’s failing.
Dean’s not human, he’s humanity. It’s a problem.
There are times when Dean pulls Crowley into the bedroom and has his wicked way, good times. Crowley watches the demonic debauchery take over the not-so-pure-to-begin-with body.
Unfortunately, there are times when they’re at it, so to speak, and Dean’s cries and moans turn to sadness, just taking on a little bit of an edge, not enough to stop Crowley. (Crowley doesn’t have a conscience, but if he did, he might feel bad about that.) Sometimes he whimpers That Name, but it’s only rarely, and it’s studiously ignored.
Now, he’s got Dean bent over the desk in the study, kneeling behind him and pushing his knees apart to taste him, rim him until he’s leaking against Louis XIV wood and grinding down against Crowley’s mouth, and he’s whimpering that damned Name again, so Crowley pulls back and delivers a stinging smack to the back of Dean’s thighs, snarling.
“Listen, and listen well, Winchester—“ he growls, and Dean’s knees threaten to give out. Crowley’s still got it, he’s not the King of Hell for nothing. When he rakes his nails down the taut skin, flushed from the blow, Dean groans so loudly Crowley would have been concerned for his soul (ha) if he had one. When he speaks again, Crowley’s voice is gently threatening, and Dean’s become a puddle of lithe muscle and tan skin on his desk. “
You would do well to bear in mind both who started this little dalliance,” he punctuates this with a sharp pinch to Dean’s perineum, a full-body jolt sending Crowley’s desk skittering a few inches across the floor, “and who’s currently making you feel like perhaps a soul is just a pesky little thing to keep you from having proper congress, here.”
It’s a matter of seconds after Crowley buries his face in Dean once more that Dean comes with a wordless cry, irreverently spattering dark antique wood with acidic white, which Crowley’s going to have to clean. Dean melts down and sucks Crowley’s cock until he’s done, share and share alike, and when he pulls off Crowley kisses him (he tastes like semen and maybe blood) and asks sardonically, “Feeling better, now?”
Dean shrugs. He stands up, hitches up his trousers, tries to fix himself. It’s a token effort, really. Symbolic. As he makes to leave, Crowley stops him, calling Dean’s name.
“What?” Dean doesn’t turn back, but he acknowledges his superior.
“You stop missing them,” Crowley murmurs, and Dean leaves without another word. Crowley, for his own part, doesn’t know if that was a command, a declaration, or a question.