[If Crowley looked anything other than grumpy about this, he wouldn't really be Crowley. Maybe he could get by with extreme rage, but the good old King of Hell has a tendency to show a little more composure than that. All in all, it just makes Dean want to punch him for being so damn calm right now. He's not going to, though- the only thing worse than standing less than two feet away from him at all times would be standing less than two feet away from him with his entrails spilled all over the floor.]
Do not say the 'W' word. I haven't fucked with any... of them for, like, months now, and I'd like to keep it that way. They're freaking gross.
[Seriously, it's all bodily fluids and eyeballs and teeth. It's skeevy as shit. He kicks the door in frustration, mind going over lists of the possible candidates without pulling forth anything useful. Demons, demons, demons, but if it were a demonic thing, Crowley'd actually be useful.
Which would just make this too damn easy, apparently. Fuck you very much, universe, and the horse you road in on. He glances over his shoulder, frowning a bit.]
A way to undo it- how in the hell'd you figure that out? More importantly, how?
Markings on the walls, darling. I just hope I'm reading them wrong.
[Because Hell knows that telling Dean Winchester that they have to make out isn't going to go over particularly well. In all likelihood, he imagines the man will accuse him of making it up, just to get his hands on him or something. Admittedly, maybe if Crowley flashed bedroom eyes and enjoyed seeing him roughed up a little bit less the Hunter wouldn't have quite as much cause.]
On the very short list of positives, I think we're dealing with some sort of pagan god.
[He was hoping that Dean had some sort of weapon stuffed into his clothes, but they probably weren't going to be that lucky. It would also be rather to nice to actually know what they were dealing with, and how to kill it, but he supposed they could work off trial and error. It was Sumerian, so he was guessing it might be Innana, but Crowley wasn't a fan of supposition when it came to these sort of situations.]
On the long list of less positives, we get out by snogging for somewhere around seven minutes.
[Then again, inhuman body, inhuman eyesight. Freaking figures. His hands smack against the wall as he feels his way around- maybe there's a vent, or like an attic entrance, or something. Oh, who's he friggin' kidding? This is a closet. They're locked in a damn closet. He nearly had his eye poked out by a wire coat hanger.
He stopped feeling around and leaned against the door with a sigh. Pagan gods. Awesome. Those were like his second least favorite dicks in the universe. The first being angels. Or, you know, angels who turned into pagan gods. Those were a double whammy.
Give him a second to take that in.]
Wait--
[Seven minutes. Snogging. Each other. In a closet.]
We're paying homage to the god of Seven Minutes in Heaven? Are you fucking kidding me? You're messing with me. Now is seriously not the time or the place, Heff.
[Crowley sighed and gave Dean his best do you really think I'm joking? look. He had a feeling that it was rather muted by the dark. He took a deep breath and settled for explanations, instead. Dean might be the pretty one, but sometimes he wished he was a bit faster on the uptake.]
Most likely to be Inanna, Sumerian goddess of love-but-never-marriage, adultery, and prostitutes. Wears trashy clothes and snatches men from taverns for sexual pleasure -- you know, your sort of woman, I hear.
[He wasn't entirely certain if they were the sacrifices, or if they were stuck here so she could go ravish Dean's little brother unimpeded. It was a rather important detail, but one that was a bit beyond his ability to ascertain from the inside of a bloody cursed closet.]
Except for the part where she kills them, but she was a warrior goddess and that was all the rage back in her day. Point here being, darling, she was playing Seven Minutes in Heaven before fratboys existed.
[Dean caught that look. Okay, yeah, so not joking then. Spell it out for him, Crowley, that's the only way he's going to wrap his head around this.
He tilted his head, drew his lips back in an impressed, interested expression. Huh. Inanna, huh? He could get on board with that. Hell, if he were pagan, he'd probably be her patron saint.
...Except for the killing part. Damn. Always came with a drawback, these pagan bastards.]
Gotta show the woman some respect. She did Ke$ha before Ke$ha was cool.
[Alright, focus.]
So, let me get this straight- the Goddess of Tramp Stamps is just strolling along and merrily decides to lock our asses in a closet? What the hell is the end ga-
[He falters. Shit.]
Sam.
[This suddenly got a lot more serious. But- shit, he really totally didn't want to do this. Are you fucking kidding him?]
You realize I am just, so completely not into dudes, right?
[Crowley rolled his eyes at Dean's off-handed comment about Ke$ha. It's not that he doesn't get the man's references, he just tried not to sink to that level. He watched Dean, one lifted eyebrow as he waited for the hunter to come to the same conclusion that he'd reached a few minutes before.]
Exactly. She wants some quality alone time with your moose, and thought we might get in the way of her hook up.
[He seems utterly unconcerned at Dean's protests about how he's totally completely absolutely not into guys. Really, sometimes he thinks the man protests too much for his unwavering heterosexuality to be taken at face value. He edges closer, shrinking the distance in between their bodies, one hand reaching out and smoothing the wrinkles in the shirt the hunter was wearing.]
That's nice, love. I am.
[His lips curving, wicked and silently saying no, he didn't have the decency to pretend he wasn't going to enjoy this. His eyes raking over Dean's body in the dark-lit closet, somehow still managing to look like he was sizing him up.]
So do you actually know what to do with those pretty lips of yours, or do you just pick up the drunk ones and hope they don't notice?
[Crowley just couldn't help needling Dean despite the shitty situation they were in. The fact was that he actually was worried about Sam, not that he had any intention of saying that out loud. And so instead he settled for antagonizing Dean.
[Dean, despite his never ending pride and masculinity, found himself backing up as Crowley advanced. Not that he was scared, thank you very much, just a sort of reflex at being approached like that. He didn't have very far to go, though. A step and a half, and his back hit solid closet wall.
And then there was a hand on his chest, and his head pulled back, cocked to one side, eyes wide.]
Mostly the drunk ones.
[So, the words were witty enough, but his voice betrayed an edge of anxiety, and he wasn't proud to admit that. Sure, he wanted to save Sam, but...
Really, universe? Really? There had to be some kind of line, or maybe a plan B- maybe if he hopped on one foot and sang the national anthem backwards, or swore his firstborn son, or something...?
No?]
Wait- wait just a second, there, cowboy. After we... you know, how am I supposed to kill the bitch?
After we 'you know'? Really, Winchester, we're taking about kissing here, you don't need to act like a blushing Victorian virgin.
[There was a glimmer in his dark eyes that betrayed that he was more than just slightly amused at the situation, not to mention Dean's reactions. Interested in this? Definitely. And without the good grace to pretend elsewise. Another, nicer creature might have backed up, given the Hunter some breathing room, but Crowley somehow seemed to have shifted just slightly closer.]
It's not like one of us has to shag the other into a wall -- assuming I read it right, of course.
[He was teasing, of course, not that this was anywhere close to the time or place. There were a number of useful spells he'd come across in Sumerian; his translation skills were pretty up to par.
He shrugged his shoulders eventually, and heaved a rather exasperated sigh.]
You stab her with a bronze blade coated with the juice of a pomegranate.
[Pomegranates being ancient symbols of both marriage and the underworld, which was her sister's domain. Bronze was the offering left to Inanna's lover, who had celebrated her death. Crowley didn't bother explaining, because he didn't think the information would stick. Or, well, be particularly useful once they ran her through, anyway.]
Now, do you feel up to saving your moose of a brother, or do I have to buy you dinner first?
[Dean tried very hard not to acknowledge that glimmer- not to look into those eyes at all, because that was freaking intimate and weird. It was a little difficult not to, though, considering Crowley was right up in his face, eyes (and lips) only a few inches from his own. He craned his neck back, and accomplished absolutely nothing in the gesture. This was not good. If he was going to make out with a dude- not that he ever would, but if he was going to, he could think of about a dozen people that would be higher on his Gay List than a former punk-ass crossroads demon.
He held up a finger.]
There's going to be absolutely no shagging. In fact, no touching of any kind that isn't absolutely necessary. I don't wanna feel you getting all handsy. Hard to resist, I know, but be a classy first date, would you?
[He cleared his throat, darted a tongue over his lips and tried to ignore how dry his mouth suddenly felt.]
Freakin' deserve dinner after this. I'm expecting lobster. The good kind, none of that shitty Red Lobster crap.
[Another beat and, okay, maybe at this point he was just stalling. Son of a bitch.]
Yes, yes, you've gone all shirking violet because you're scared if I touch you, you might like it. Don't worry doll, I'm not that kind of a first date.
[Crowley? Totally unimpressed by the hunter's resistance. In fact, he rather thought it was over-stated, yelled a bit too loud, like he had something to prove. The crossroads demon quite frankly simply couldn't have cared less. He curled fingers in Dean's shirt and looked like he was trying to hold back laughter as Dean went on about lobster, something glinting darkly in his hazel eyes.]
Alright, Winchester. I'll take you out for a lobster dinner. It's a deal.
[And on that no-doubt ominous note, Crowley leaned in and sealed their mouths together before Dean could try and sputter something inevitably graceless in response. Dean Winchester was the only person possessed of failed retorts so bad that half the time Crowley felt embarrassed just for having heard them.]
[It's a deal? Oh hell no- before he had a chance to protest, though, a mouth was pressed against his. By reflex, his eyes snapped shut and fingers came up to fist tightly in Crowley's stupid unexpected t-shirt.
Two separate instincts took over at once- obviously the urge to shove the other man away, which he suppressed after the tiniest forward-shove and compensated for by hauling the other body closer to his chest. The second urge was ingrained into him through years of developing skills in this area- the urge to kiss back.
Defending his honor did not make him gay. They were already kissing, right? Might as well not give Crowley something else to mock him about, bringing his bedroom skills into question.
After taking about three seconds to come to the conclusion, he launched his fuck-it attitude into practice, used his grip to spin Crowley around and slammed his back into the closet wall. Assaulted his mouth in a kiss that was almost more a display of dominance.]
[Really Dean, you walked right into that. Crowley had tossed the line out casually, but he hadn't expected the elder Winchester to bite. Sometimes he couldn't tell how much he liked the man, and how much he just enjoyed torturing him. In an admittedly non-dangerous sort of way that was peppered with unexpected assistance from time to time.
There was a slight push away, but then Dean seemed to get a handle on himself and dragged him in closer. Crowley was only too willing to oblige. Crowley was a good kisser, but when they started it was all sweet gentility, wordlessly mocking as if Dean needed to be handled with kid-gloves. That lasted for all of three seconds.
Dean's hands on his shirt reversing their positions, shoving him into the wall and then they were kissing hard. Crowley was kissing back, but it was determined, now, breathless and intent. The demon refusing to give as Dean turned it into something more than a kiss. A competition, really. And so he kissed back harder, gave as good as he got, teeth tugging at lips without crossing that threshold to where it hurt, slide of a tongue at the seal of his lips.
Crowley wanted to break him. Not permanently, not hollow Dean out inside, and leave him cold and brittle. But like this? The demon had seven minutes and a few hundred years of carnal knowledge, and he wanted to leave Dean Winchester with the irrevocable fact that he'd liked this.
This gesture at determining dominance was just a play; even if he lost, he was still going to win.]
[Call him crazy, but once you spend forty years in hell thanks to Let's Make a Deal, you're not really eager to repeat the experience. Especially not by some accidentally worded stupid demon deal over Rock Lobster. He's.... pretty sure Crowley was just messing with him, though, so he doesn't push the issue.
If he gets popped off by some loony in ten years, he's strolling through hell and knocking straight on Crowley's office door. Bastard. Stupid, helpful, annoyingly weird bastard.
That bastard was fighting back. Oh, it was so on. If this was a competition, Dean wasn't about to go down without a little fight, even if he was playing straight into Crowley's hand. Not literally. So not literally.
He bit back, just this side of painful, nudged his chin forward and met the touch of tongue with a responding press of his own- definitely not gentle, but not sloppy, either. A straightforward, commanding curl that tried to force the other into submission.
If Crowley was going to break his brain by making him like it, Dean would make the victory bittersweet with the knowledge that it was all he got, and it was so never happening again, no matter how awesome.
And after this, he was going to stab that pagan bitch straight through the damn heart with a fury.]
[Well, he was more under the impression that they'd been bargaining seven minutes of kisses for a lobster dinner date, but Dean always was late to the party. Maybe the demon was just messing with him. Maybe. It was possible.
Crowley's hands ended up somewhat-unobtrusively curled into Dean's shirt against the Hunter's sides. It wasn't as if there was a wall for him to put them against, so, there they went. He was breaking the rules in the least objectionable manner possible, here, Winchester.
There's a faint murmur at that just-sharp bite of teeth against his lip- what? demon- and his tongue slid against the man's as he tried to press Crowley's into submission. It didn't work of course, the demon's tongue curling against Dean's, starting to map out reactions, places to antagonize with drags of his tongue and
Yes, yes, all he gets. As if he's not going to be trying to find a way to change that state of affairs. But, for the moment, his attention if fully focused on that kiss, on the way their mouths fit together, and trying to make him moan.]
Do not say the 'W' word. I haven't fucked with any... of them for, like, months now, and I'd like to keep it that way. They're freaking gross.
[Seriously, it's all bodily fluids and eyeballs and teeth. It's skeevy as shit. He kicks the door in frustration, mind going over lists of the possible candidates without pulling forth anything useful. Demons, demons, demons, but if it were a demonic thing, Crowley'd actually be useful.
Which would just make this too damn easy, apparently. Fuck you very much, universe, and the horse you road in on. He glances over his shoulder, frowning a bit.]
A way to undo it- how in the hell'd you figure that out? More importantly, how?
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[Because Hell knows that telling Dean Winchester that they have to make out isn't going to go over particularly well. In all likelihood, he imagines the man will accuse him of making it up, just to get his hands on him or something. Admittedly, maybe if Crowley flashed bedroom eyes and enjoyed seeing him roughed up a little bit less the Hunter wouldn't have quite as much cause.]
On the very short list of positives, I think we're dealing with some sort of pagan god.
[He was hoping that Dean had some sort of weapon stuffed into his clothes, but they probably weren't going to be that lucky. It would also be rather to nice to actually know what they were dealing with, and how to kill it, but he supposed they could work off trial and error. It was Sumerian, so he was guessing it might be Innana, but Crowley wasn't a fan of supposition when it came to these sort of situations.]
On the long list of less positives, we get out by snogging for somewhere around seven minutes.
[He eyed Dean and waited with dry humor.]
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[Then again, inhuman body, inhuman eyesight. Freaking figures. His hands smack against the wall as he feels his way around- maybe there's a vent, or like an attic entrance, or something. Oh, who's he friggin' kidding? This is a closet. They're locked in a damn closet. He nearly had his eye poked out by a wire coat hanger.
He stopped feeling around and leaned against the door with a sigh. Pagan gods. Awesome. Those were like his second least favorite dicks in the universe. The first being angels. Or, you know, angels who turned into pagan gods. Those were a double whammy.
Give him a second to take that in.]
Wait--
[Seven minutes. Snogging. Each other. In a closet.]
We're paying homage to the god of Seven Minutes in Heaven? Are you fucking kidding me? You're messing with me. Now is seriously not the time or the place, Heff.
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Most likely to be Inanna, Sumerian goddess of love-but-never-marriage, adultery, and prostitutes. Wears trashy clothes and snatches men from taverns for sexual pleasure -- you know, your sort of woman, I hear.
[He wasn't entirely certain if they were the sacrifices, or if they were stuck here so she could go ravish Dean's little brother unimpeded. It was a rather important detail, but one that was a bit beyond his ability to ascertain from the inside of a bloody cursed closet.]
Except for the part where she kills them, but she was a warrior goddess and that was all the rage back in her day. Point here being, darling, she was playing Seven Minutes in Heaven before fratboys existed.
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He tilted his head, drew his lips back in an impressed, interested expression. Huh. Inanna, huh? He could get on board with that. Hell, if he were pagan, he'd probably be her patron saint.
...Except for the killing part. Damn. Always came with a drawback, these pagan bastards.]
Gotta show the woman some respect. She did Ke$ha before Ke$ha was cool.
[Alright, focus.]
So, let me get this straight- the Goddess of Tramp Stamps is just strolling along and merrily decides to lock our asses in a closet? What the hell is the end ga-
[He falters. Shit.]
Sam.
[This suddenly got a lot more serious. But- shit, he really totally didn't want to do this. Are you fucking kidding him?]
You realize I am just, so completely not into dudes, right?
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Exactly. She wants some quality alone time with your moose, and thought we might get in the way of her hook up.
[He seems utterly unconcerned at Dean's protests about how he's totally completely absolutely not into guys. Really, sometimes he thinks the man protests too much for his unwavering heterosexuality to be taken at face value. He edges closer, shrinking the distance in between their bodies, one hand reaching out and smoothing the wrinkles in the shirt the hunter was wearing.]
That's nice, love. I am.
[His lips curving, wicked and silently saying no, he didn't have the decency to pretend he wasn't going to enjoy this. His eyes raking over Dean's body in the dark-lit closet, somehow still managing to look like he was sizing him up.]
So do you actually know what to do with those pretty lips of yours, or do you just pick up the drunk ones and hope they don't notice?
[Crowley just couldn't help needling Dean despite the shitty situation they were in. The fact was that he actually was worried about Sam, not that he had any intention of saying that out loud. And so instead he settled for antagonizing Dean.
As if that wasn't almost a full-time hobby.]
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And then there was a hand on his chest, and his head pulled back, cocked to one side, eyes wide.]
Mostly the drunk ones.
[So, the words were witty enough, but his voice betrayed an edge of anxiety, and he wasn't proud to admit that. Sure, he wanted to save Sam, but...
Really, universe? Really? There had to be some kind of line, or maybe a plan B- maybe if he hopped on one foot and sang the national anthem backwards, or swore his firstborn son, or something...?
No?]
Wait- wait just a second, there, cowboy. After we... you know, how am I supposed to kill the bitch?
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[There was a glimmer in his dark eyes that betrayed that he was more than just slightly amused at the situation, not to mention Dean's reactions. Interested in this? Definitely. And without the good grace to pretend elsewise. Another, nicer creature might have backed up, given the Hunter some breathing room, but Crowley somehow seemed to have shifted just slightly closer.]
It's not like one of us has to shag the other into a wall -- assuming I read it right, of course.
[He was teasing, of course, not that this was anywhere close to the time or place. There were a number of useful spells he'd come across in Sumerian; his translation skills were pretty up to par.
He shrugged his shoulders eventually, and heaved a rather exasperated sigh.]
You stab her with a bronze blade coated with the juice of a pomegranate.
[Pomegranates being ancient symbols of both marriage and the underworld, which was her sister's domain. Bronze was the offering left to Inanna's lover, who had celebrated her death. Crowley didn't bother explaining, because he didn't think the information would stick. Or, well, be particularly useful once they ran her through, anyway.]
Now, do you feel up to saving your moose of a brother, or do I have to buy you dinner first?
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He held up a finger.]
There's going to be absolutely no shagging. In fact, no touching of any kind that isn't absolutely necessary. I don't wanna feel you getting all handsy. Hard to resist, I know, but be a classy first date, would you?
[He cleared his throat, darted a tongue over his lips and tried to ignore how dry his mouth suddenly felt.]
Freakin' deserve dinner after this. I'm expecting lobster. The good kind, none of that shitty Red Lobster crap.
[Another beat and, okay, maybe at this point he was just stalling. Son of a bitch.]
Okay. Uh. Should we- on three?
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[Crowley? Totally unimpressed by the hunter's resistance. In fact, he rather thought it was over-stated, yelled a bit too loud, like he had something to prove. The crossroads demon quite frankly simply couldn't have cared less. He curled fingers in Dean's shirt and looked like he was trying to hold back laughter as Dean went on about lobster, something glinting darkly in his hazel eyes.]
Alright, Winchester. I'll take you out for a lobster dinner. It's a deal.
[And on that no-doubt ominous note, Crowley leaned in and sealed their mouths together before Dean could try and sputter something inevitably graceless in response. Dean Winchester was the only person possessed of failed retorts so bad that half the time Crowley felt embarrassed just for having heard them.]
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Two separate instincts took over at once- obviously the urge to shove the other man away, which he suppressed after the tiniest forward-shove and compensated for by hauling the other body closer to his chest. The second urge was ingrained into him through years of developing skills in this area- the urge to kiss back.
Defending his honor did not make him gay. They were already kissing, right? Might as well not give Crowley something else to mock him about, bringing his bedroom skills into question.
After taking about three seconds to come to the conclusion, he launched his fuck-it attitude into practice, used his grip to spin Crowley around and slammed his back into the closet wall. Assaulted his mouth in a kiss that was almost more a display of dominance.]
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There was a slight push away, but then Dean seemed to get a handle on himself and dragged him in closer. Crowley was only too willing to oblige. Crowley was a good kisser, but when they started it was all sweet gentility, wordlessly mocking as if Dean needed to be handled with kid-gloves. That lasted for all of three seconds.
Dean's hands on his shirt reversing their positions, shoving him into the wall and then they were kissing hard. Crowley was kissing back, but it was determined, now, breathless and intent. The demon refusing to give as Dean turned it into something more than a kiss. A competition, really. And so he kissed back harder, gave as good as he got, teeth tugging at lips without crossing that threshold to where it hurt, slide of a tongue at the seal of his lips.
Crowley wanted to break him. Not permanently, not hollow Dean out inside, and leave him cold and brittle. But like this? The demon had seven minutes and a few hundred years of carnal knowledge, and he wanted to leave Dean Winchester with the irrevocable fact that he'd liked this.
This gesture at determining dominance was just a play; even if he lost, he was still going to win.]
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If he gets popped off by some loony in ten years, he's strolling through hell and knocking straight on Crowley's office door. Bastard. Stupid, helpful, annoyingly weird bastard.
That bastard was fighting back. Oh, it was so on. If this was a competition, Dean wasn't about to go down without a little fight, even if he was playing straight into Crowley's hand. Not literally. So not literally.
He bit back, just this side of painful, nudged his chin forward and met the touch of tongue with a responding press of his own- definitely not gentle, but not sloppy, either. A straightforward, commanding curl that tried to force the other into submission.
If Crowley was going to break his brain by making him like it, Dean would make the victory bittersweet with the knowledge that it was all he got, and it was so never happening again, no matter how awesome.
And after this, he was going to stab that pagan bitch straight through the damn heart with a fury.]
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Crowley's hands ended up somewhat-unobtrusively curled into Dean's shirt against the Hunter's sides. It wasn't as if there was a wall for him to put them against, so, there they went. He was breaking the rules in the least objectionable manner possible, here, Winchester.
There's a faint murmur at that just-sharp bite of teeth against his lip- what? demon- and his tongue slid against the man's as he tried to press Crowley's into submission. It didn't work of course, the demon's tongue curling against Dean's, starting to map out reactions, places to antagonize with drags of his tongue and
Yes, yes, all he gets. As if he's not going to be trying to find a way to change that state of affairs. But, for the moment, his attention if fully focused on that kiss, on the way their mouths fit together, and trying to make him moan.]
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