Save Me From These Perfect Clouds

[sitsherequietly]

It was like being woken from a dream.  That moment where he'd snap back to reality, and Sam and Dean would be talking, or he'd be sitting in the backseat of the Impala, watching the rural countryside pass by from the highway.  But always, there was that moment where he knew that something wasn't quite right, that he was missing something, something

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[crossroadskink]

Cas seems to go along with it easily, but then, his body knows what this is, even if he wants to hang on to the lie that he's innocent. The quick way he moves against him, eager and right there, in his space, against his body, it all goes right to his groin. It doesn't matter that Cas practically reeks of too much conflicting emotion, that he's over thinking this so much Crowley can almost hear his thoughts. All that matters is the passion and how he leans in, unsure and yet not pulling away.

He feels Castiel's interest. It's not much yet, certainly not as much as the obscene press of flesh against Cas' thigh, but it betrays him all the same. Then Cas pulls him in and Crowley lets out a low groan and shifts how he holds the angel, an arm going around him to keep him close.

When he pulls away to catch his breath, Crowley doesn't let him get far. He's still close, rough hands everywhere. Crowley hasn't flipped their positions yet because for the moment, he prefers this, likes how Cas doing the pinning says how much he wants to be right here. When it suits him, he'll turn them around, or push Cas to the floor, or better yet, bend him down over the desk, but for now this is it. It's what he wants, what he's been fighting to have.

Just Cas, free to fight with him or against him (especially against him), grappling with something less mundane than his heavenly duties and moral dilemmas. Free to meet him on the battlefield they've been dancing around for so long.

He doesn't let Cas catch his breath, doesn't give him time to rest in the frenzy. He kisses him again, as demanding in this as he is in everything else, and it's like he wants to devour the angel whole, like he wants to crawl inside his skin if it's the only way to get close enough.

[sitsherequietly]

He wants to be revolted, he wants his Grace to shake, ache, burn in protest of the demon's lips against his own. It's not that easy; when is anything ever that easy? He tastes like the smoky fine scotch the demon drinks to arguable excess; not sulfur and brimstone, he tastes like decadence undercut with the same blood that stains Castiel's fingers. Being married ruined him, even if it wasn't really him, if he didn't even know who he was at the time, there's sense memory of touch and affection and pleasure. There's that desire to be touched by someone that wants him, and oh, but Crowley seems to be exactly that.

There's that way that he holds him close, even when Cas breaks the kiss, not letting him get far, as if the demon thinks he might try and escape. And he should. But he can't pull his hands away, can't keep from pinning Crowley right here with him. His fingers find his hips, shoving him back a little so he's flush to the edge of the desk, chest and shoulders pushing Crowley back a little, like he wants the demon as physically off-balance as Castiel feels.

This is still a battlefield, still a fight, and there's a thrill to it; the angel biting at the demon's lips as their mouths meet. He refuses to give Crowley his surrender, even if agreeing to fight is the same thing. His passion betrays him, reveals all that tightly-wound want that he never wanted to have to admit to. He wonders, if in the end, that wasn't part of why he betrayed him, as much as any delusions of grandeur or necessity -- because then it would have been too easy, this feeling.

With the way their bodies are pressed close, the faint friction from how they shift and move, he can't help the way his body reacts. Blaming it on his vessel would be easy, but also blatantly untrue.

[crossroadskink]

If this was what revolted Cas, then he was a hypocrite. They usually were on opposite sides, but there had been a time, not so long ago, when they were on the same one. This is worse, this is more than just metaphorically getting into bed with your enemy, and Crowley is loving the victory with every breath he steals between their mouths, every inch he pushes him back against the desk. Crowley has to hold on now, just so he doesn't fall. He's gripping Cas' shoulders to keep his balance, and there's no question: he's hard in his suit slacks and it's pressing obviously against Cas' body.

Crowley pulls from the kiss, just to dislodge Cas, so that in the moment of recovery he can come back in and bite at his lips, take the aggressive role. But it's not going to be that easy, Cas won't let it be, and that's a thrill Crowley has rarely had. A fight to the end, not topping because the other wants to bottom, but instead only because he'd just barely managed to keep the upper hand long enough to take advantage.

He knows Cas wants this. The angel is still trying to tell himself he doesn't, that's why he's pushing back, why he's trying to show that he's in control of this, because he's not. He wants this, not just his body, but all of him, and Crowley grins as he pulls away again, a warm hum of pleasure. He's not taking over just yet, but he murmurs, "I'm going to bend you over this desk and fuck you like that little wife of yours couldn't…"

There's maybe an implication there, that he knows Cas wants more than he's had, that sex before has been good, it's gotten him off, but something's been missing.

[sitsherequietly]

Honestly, they hadn't been on opposite sides as much as Castiel almost wanted. That would make it easier, he imagined, if Crowley hadn't been instrumental in defeating Lucifer, if he hadn't been the only person on his side, the only person that really understood the magnitude of stopping Raphael, if he hadn't broken a rather lucrative deal to take down the Leviathans, if he hadn't- from the appearance of things- been fighting against them to save Cas. If he was as black as demons, as the King of Hell was supposed to be, maybe things wouldn't be like this, their mouths wouldn't be locked together, Crowley's erection pressing hard into his thigh, his own half-hard flesh grinding low against his stomach.

Crowley pulls away, just to come back aggressive- biting at Cas' lips, but the angel doesn't give him the time to get too much of an upper hand, his own lips and teeth tugging at Crowley's lips, He refuses to let him gain the upper hand just yet because fighting Crowley like this is easier than admitting to himself that he wants this, wants him, that there are moments even when they've stood against one another that Castiel has been glad the Winchesters, and even he, always failed in killing him. He's not in control of himself, and he knows that means he'll lose, but he won't make it easy. He likes fighting against him, and he likes the idea that they're fighting for the same thing, really.

At that declaration, Cas growls, presses his hand to the center of Crowley's chest and presses, moving to push him down flat on the desk beneath him, looking into the demon's eyes, his blue gaze cool and even. "You can try," he comments, dead of inflection as always, but it's either a challenge or an invitation, and either way it's the first surrender.