My Beloved Is Mine (1/2)
Title: My Beloved Is Mine
Rating:NC-17
Fandom and/or Ship: Supernatural; Dean/Crowley, Sam/Dean
Warnings: knifeplay, bloodplay, blood drinking, blood injection, addiction, dubious consent, angst, dark
Word Count: 4,611
Summary: "If you kick your puppy and leave him in the street, moose, you shouldn't be surprised when someone else takes him home."
Dean knows next to nothing about the mark of Cain but Crowley, he knows enough for both of them. Or, at least, enough to use it to his advantage. In theory, the mark bound Cain to Lucifer. By the same rules, it should bind Dean to him, if he can learn how to use it.
All Dean knows is that if he's lost Sam, there isn't much that matters.
About Sam, they're all wrong, Sam himself included. No matter what he said, when he's faced with losing Dean, he won't go down without a fight.
Author's Note(s)-
Alright so, this may be a slightly longish note but I'll try to keep it short-
1. This story is fucked up. It's dark, and while Dean does consent to everything he does with Crowley, because of the nature of the mark of Cain in this story, his consent is always dubious once he takes the mark. There'll be more about exactly what that means in the second chapter but for now, just know that the mark is influencing his behavior and to a degree coloring his decisions. Dean has no idea, and part of his pull toward Crowley genuinely does come on its own...but that's all I'm gonna say about that. Just. Dub-con. I wanted to make sure everyone was warned.
2. I feel to lighten the darkness of this(and in case anyone is reading whose OTP happens to be Dean/Crowley), that I should say that however much the first part of this seems like it's a story about Dean and Crowley, in the end it's chiefly a story about Sam and Dean. Even some of the Dean/Crowley is about Sam/Dean.
3. This is my first time writing Supernatural in like...damn, four years. I'm super fucking happy to be back. I'm also super nervous. This is fucked as shit, but I really hope you guys enjoy it.
4. Part two will either be up later tonight or tomorrow.
5. In this AU, Crowley never kept another demon around for sex and blood. He takes blood from other sources, yes, but he's rather focused on Dean
********
The first time Dean took a needle to his arm for Crowley, he did it on the side of Missouri Route 146. It wasn’t so hard to justify, not even then. Everything Crowley had said about the First Blade had seemed to hold up; they were well on the way, and he looked like shit. He was pale, shaky, jonesing hard no matter how he’d tried to deny it last time Dean had asked. Given the situation, bolstering Crowley’s dependence on him seemed not to have too many detriments. Or, so Dean told himself as he pushed the needle in.
What his answer might have been a week before or a week after, he couldn’t particularly bring himself to care.
So he drew his blood, watched as Crowley injected himself with trembling fingers. Crowley pulled the needle from his skin slow, enough that Dean could see the slight catch as it left his body.
“So. Dean. What do I owe you?”
“You can get your ass back in the car and we can get goin’. May be in Missouri but we’ve got a ways left to go.”
“Is that all?”
“Spit it out, Crowley.”
Crowley flipped the needle between his fingers, held it out to Dean plunger first. “Nothing. I thought this was a transaction, but hey if it’s charity, I’ll take it.”
“Just get in the goddamn car.”
Crowley waited past the closing of the door, past the turn of the engine and half a mile before he continued, as if they’d never paused. “You’re just not very good at this business, are you? It’s not a proper drug deal without payment.”
“Nothin’ proper about any of it.”
“Are you telling me there’s nothing illicit you want from me, Dean? Nothing at all? No one’s that boring; certainly not you.”
“The only thing I want from you we’re on the way to, so considering-“
“Simpler than that. You know, if we’d done this in an alley, a man with more experience in deals in your position…well. It’s a little easier to kneel on concrete than gravel. Might be best if we did use an alley.”
“Alright, enough.” Dean took his eyes off the road long enough to glare. His hands clenched and slid against the wheel.
“Ah, see? Sex. Always the right button to push, especially since you’re not-“
“We’re not talkin’ about this here, Crowley. In fact, we’re not talkin’ about this at all. I made a choice, you got your fix, and now I need you to focus; you got it?”
“Absolutely.” Had he not seen it in the corner of his eye, Dean still could’ve heard Crowley’s smile.
********
That first time, it came in the in-between, after Dean had left Sam but before Sam had rejected him in every way that mattered. The second, it came after in every respect. After Sam, after he’d taken the mark.
Dean drew the second syringe by the light of his baby’s headlights, 2:30 AM. Crowley had called and he’d answered, and they leaned on the hood and talked about the Tonga Trench and Crowley’s minions and Casablanca. They talked, and Crowley loosed his tie with unsteady hands, and Dean rolled up his sleeve without being asked.
The needle stung sharply on withdrawal, a side effect of his distraction. Blood beaded above the surface inside his elbow. Dean ignored it as he handed the syringe over, only bothered to raise his hand to wipe it away on the cuff of his sleeve after Crowley was already engaged in his injection. Even so, he moved faster than Dean had cared to anticipate, fast enough to catch Dean’s wrist and push his hand away.
“Watch it, darling. You should know how it is.” He switched his grip to Dean’s left arm, stretched it toward him slow enough that Dean didn’t reflex punch him, did nothing more than wait. For that small victory, Crowley grinned. His breath raised the hair on Dean’s skin. “A junkie can’t afford to be wasteful.”
His mouth closed over the pinprick. Dean should have pushed him away then. The knowledge was present, all instinct and certainty. Later, he would not be able to tell himself he didn’t know better; he knew that much for fact, but Crowley’s mouth was hot and wet. His tongue lapped at Dean’s skin, desperation trapping his strokes somewhere between sensuous and timid. This was the king of hell half playing at humanity, half playing him. Or, perhaps in thirds- humanity, deception, and lust. There was no reason it couldn’t be all of the above for Crowley, not when Dean couldn’t even begin to place the reasons behind his own acceptance.
His hand fisted in Crowley’s tie, waiting.
He should have pushed him away.
********
In the past, Sam would have seen the bruise. In the midst of research, maybe- the rise of Dean’s sleeve when he reached for a book or a beer could have given it away easily enough. If he’d been careful, kept his sleeves down far enough, there was a chance he could have hidden it a few hours but there would have been no long term shielding. Sam would have pulled his shirt from his shoulders in one of their rooms, perhaps quick and rough but even so, not an inch of Dean’s body would escape his notice, his inventory.
His Sam, he’d have found it, known it, and his eyes would have burned with a pain sharp enough to make Dean wish he could claw the evidence off his skin beneath his fingernails.
In the end, Sam would have forgiven him. He’d have gone to bed with his body mottled from Sam’s teeth, from the pressure of his enormous hands on Dean’s hips. He’d have woken up sore, and felt clean.
Dean woke up at the kitchen table, his unshaven cheek pressed uncomfortably against the mark of Cain. Sam had been down last night to grab a few beers, had seen Dean’s arms spread out plain, Dean’s outer shirt draped back across his chair. If he had noticed Crowley’s handiwork(and he hadn’t; Dean had to believe he hadn’t), he hadn’t said a word.
Two days later, Dean text Crowley.
We can’t be doing this all the time; I’m not a goddamn blood bank. But if you want it, I’ll meet you outside tonight.
Dean didn’t come up until past three, but it seemed the king of hell had time to wait.
He took a half full syringe, shot up, fell to his knees when he saw Dean pull out a knife. Crowley licked his lips, for once kept silent and asked with his uneven breath instead of his words. Dean cut shallow but enough, just enough that Crowley could fasten his lips over the wound and suck greedily, obscenely. His moans resonated against Dean’s bones, up his arm, back down to settle in his chest, his stomach. It was too hot out there above the bunker, far too hot for Kansas early spring.
Crowley kept his hold on Dean’s arm when he finished, swayed forward just enough that for half a second it seemed almost accidental that his left hand came to rest over the front of Dean’s jeans. He was half hard beneath Crowley’s palm; without the touch, he might have been able to hide it. He might, if he’d wanted to. These days, Dean rarely actively sought decisions. They found him readily enough.
Crowley’s fingers flexed. “Is this how I’ll be paying you, then?”
Dean stiffened, his arm locked halfway between striking out and clenching against his side.
“So high strung, squirrel. There’s no need. I told you; I strike a fair bargain. And despite how much I know you enjoy these little meetings, I have no intention of staying in your debt. Therefore,” Crowley slid his hand up, grasped Dean’s buckle. “-do we have a deal?”
There was his exit, right before him. If he said no, he could go back downstairs, get drunk, pass out and maybe never, ever do this again. Crowley looked up at him, the faintest hint of blood smeared at the corner of his lips. Dean swiped his thumb across it, breathing hard, his breath misting just a little in the lingering cold.
“Just get it done.”
Crowley smiled, flicked open Dean’s belt. Dean looked up, out into the trees, up at the patchy cloud cover over the stars, anywhere but at the man between his legs. It was easy enough to tell himself that if he looked down, he’d change his mind. Surely he had at least that much conviction left in him, even now.
********
The fourth time, Crowley kissed him when he rose from his knees. He tasted like blood and come and ash and Dean hated how little he cared. He dug his fingers into the lapels of Crowley’s jacket, kissed back until his lips were almost as red and swollen as Crowley’s were after their stretch around his cock. He left Crowley hard, walked alone back into the bunker. In the library, all the tables were vacant of Sam. Dean wasn’t sure whether or not he was relieved, not even sure which answer would make him feel more ashamed.
The fifth time took place out behind the pool hall, after he’d saved Crowley’s ass. He knew Crowley had shot up in the bathroom, knew it wasn’t enough by the way his eyes pleaded when Dean almost got into the car to drive away. The first shot might not have been enough but the second carried Crowley past his usual high, far enough that when he rose from his knees he nuzzled into Dean’s neck, traced kisses along the surface above the veins beneath.
He had to know their depth, know just how much skin and muscle he’d have to part to rip them out in his teeth. He had to know; he’d done enough of it. Dean shut his eyes, swallowed hard as he reached up to get a grip of Crowley’s jacket.
“C’mon. That’s enough.” Enough, too much, but he wasn’t pulling Crowley away. Sam had read him something once, some bit of science about human bodies and intimacy, on the craving for touch. Dean had scoffed; Sam had rolled over and flatted his palm against Dean’s stomach, kissed his chest below the pentagram. In his mind, Dean was certain- if he craved anything, if his body required anything, it wasn’t touch itself, it was Sam. But now there was Crowley, the brush of his lips, the taste of scotch and sex and blood he knew he’d find if he dipped his head down for a kiss. (And he wanted just that; there was no denying it, not in his own head.)
Crowley had a point, maybe. Just a little. A junkie was a junkie, the addiction irrelevant. He could go home and scrub his skin raw and never feel clean and still, he’d let Crowley get his hands all over him again, first chance he got.
Crowley’s hand traced down Dean’s right arm, the pressure light until he reached the mark. There his grip tightened, the pad of his thumb pressing solidly against raised skin. Beneath his touch Dean could feel a flash of searing heat, so white hot for a moment that it took his breath. His head knocked back against the brick, a startling moan leaking from his throat as the sensation ebbed. Since the blade had left his hand his arm had ached for it, for the relief of its weight against his palm and the return of the heady pleasure that had swept through him as he’d taken Magnus’ head. The pain had varied, hit peaks that rattled him, but even at its best the dull ache without the blade had remained a constant until now. In the aftermath of the initial burn of Crowley’s touch, no trace of the mark’s pain remained.
Mingled with the alcohol, the orgasm, the blood he’d given, the sudden relief was intoxicating, transporting. Dean struggled against the heavy weight of his tongue, moaned again before he could speak at the lap of Crowley’s tongue just below his jaw, over his jugular.
“What’re you doing?” The words dragged, too slow, too little accusation.
“Easing your pain, darling.” His whisper was scratchy, roughed up a little further from the burn in his throat from taking Dean’s cock deep. Dean’s grip tightened until his nails dug into the fabric of Crowley’s suit. “D’you want me to stop?”
Crowley’s thumb traced the mark, his pressure firm. Reflexively, Dean’s grip shifted to Crowley’s back, hauled him closer. He could feel the press of Crowley’s cock against his hip, catch the stutter in his breath as Dean shifted to rub against him.
Nothing hurt, nothing at all.
Turning his head, Dean caught Crowley’s mouth in a kiss, quick and brutal. Crowley’s lip split. Blood welled against Dean’s teeth and Dean latched on, sucking, forcing back the flash of memory of Sam on the floor, blood smeared across his face. There was a sharpness to the taste of Crowley’s blood and Dean chased it, wondering. Somewhere in that blood, there was a bit of his own. Somewhere deeper, perhaps, there might linger a trace of Sam.
After that night, Dean lost count.
********
Dean answered Crowley’s call in his room, voice low and with his back against the door to keep it shut though he knew Sam wasn’t listening.
“Yeah, what?”
“I need you; now.”
Dean’s throat tightened. “Not happening. We’re leaving on a hunt in like an hour; I can’t just disappear.”
“Yes well despite your ego, not every contact I make with you is about your cock.”
“No, it’s usually-“
“Or any other aspect of your anatomy; will you shut up and listen?” By way of response, Dean gave him silence. “Thank you. I’ve got problems. One of my lieutenants has gone rogue. He’s disobeyed too many orders and I’ve had a rumor he just might be out for my head.”
“If Abaddon’s gotten to him, maybe we can-“
“No this isn’t Abaddon’s work; I think wants hell for himself. I can’t risk that, and I doubt you want to risk the development of another faction to worry your little heads about. Do I have your attention now?”
Dean let out a breath, paced until he could collect his thoughts. The face Sam made every time he caught Dean in any sort of contact with Crowley had gotten progressively worse, but in this they might at least be on the same page. Two contenders for hell was already too many; with the fight raging over heaven an increase battles waged on earth was everyone’s problem.
“Yeah, ok. I’ll go tell Sam; we can-“
“No Sam.”
“Then I stay here.”
The phone crackled, static on the line or fabric against Crowley’s cell. Dean could imagine the crinkle of his jacket, the way he’d hunch forward into the call like it mattered, like it helped. “I can’t ask anyone else. I can’t have anyone else knowing I’m vulnerable, but this upstart, he’s tough, and I think we both know I’m not 100%. If you bring Sam, he’ll put too much energy into finding a way to take me out while your back is turned and that won’t help anyone. You’ll be left facing Abaddon alone and even with the blade, you know I can help you.” His voice dropped, close and quiet. “Dean, you know I’ll help you. If nothing else, I know I’ve proven that much. I just need you to keep me alive.”
Crowley’s lies always managed to carry a remarkable ring of honesty, enough to muddy all certainty. There was fear in his voice to be sure but was it the blood or all art? And how much did he care? If he was honest with himself, the minute Crowley asked for help, hadn’t he known what his answer had to be?
Dean hit the door hard, though it didn’t rattle. The men of letters built to last. Dean’s knuckles throbbed.
“Alright. Where are you?”
“Caldwell. Idaho. How soon can you-“
“Soon as I can; keep your head down.”
********
Crowley turned the First Blade in his hands, slow and easy, without watching. Instead, he watched Dean watching him.
“All I’m saying is, Ronald’s a dangerous bastard. I think we’d all feel more secure if you had this, but I won’t feel secure afterward unless we have a deal.”
“I came here to help you. If anyone’s in a position to bargain, lemme tell you, it’s not you.”
“Isn’t it? Killing him is in both of our best interests, and I know you want this blade. Look at you; can’t take your eyes off it.”
Dean turned away, deliberate and smooth. He could feel its presence still, a burning itch at the back of his neck.
“Your epic stubbornness isn’t the point. You want this, and it’d do you good have it in your hand again. You know I’m right.”
“I don’t know jack about that damn thing.”
“You know I’m right.”
Yes. He did; he could feel it. “What kind of deal are you asking for?”
“Simple. I give you the blade, you do the killing, you give it back, and not to my corpse. Agreed?” Dean nodded, jerked only a little when Crowley’s hand curled against the back of his neck. “Then seal it.”
As they kissed, Crowley pressed the hilt of the First Blade into Dean’s palm. The connection swept through him, a rush of power and awareness so strong that for that instant he understood why Crowley took the needle; he was certain of it. They broke apart, breathing, the flick of Crowley’s tongue a brush of heat as he licked his own lips.
Dean took the blade fully into his hand, gripped Crowley’s tie in his left and kissed him again.
********
“You know-“ Dean raised up on his elbow, the sheet falling away from his chest. “If you’d cut back on the blood, you could keep your own damn hide out of the fire.”
Crowley sighed as the blood hit his veins, dropped the syringe with a clatter before collapsing back against the pillows. “I could. But I won’t. And be honest.” He rolled his neck, sighed again at the stretch of muscle before he tilted his head to face Dean with a smirk. “Would you really want me to?”
“Do you seriously think that’s even a question?” It was, and they knew it, they both knew it, but Crowley let him lie. For a heartbeat amusement flashed in his dark eyes but he quelled it, stroked his fingers through Dean’s hair. Dean tried not to lean into it. “You keep callin’ me in to save your ass, someone’s gonna notice.”
“Let them. Let them spread the word about the damage you do with that thing; it’s all in our favor. Besides, it’s no matter. I’m not quitting. Addiction is the spice of life.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s how that quote goes.”
“Do I care?”
“Do you ever?”
Crowley laughed, pressed his lips to the corner of Dean’s mouth, murmured against his cheek. “Thank you.” He anticipated the way Dean tensed, kneaded his fingers gently against Dean’s scalp. “Easy, love; I mean it. Some people actually appreciate being protected, you know. Not everyone rebels against it. I know what you do for me, and I appreciate it. I do.”
It was a dig at Sam, plain and simple, and Dean couldn’t let it stand, he couldn’t, not even if it was true. He pulled back, reached blindly for the edge of the sheet to tug it free of his legs. “I should go.”
Crowley hadn’t let go. He dragged himself closer though Dean had moved away, mouthed filthy and wet at juncture of his neck and collar. “Stay. Stay, and you can have me however you like.”
Dean hesitated, cursed himself for it. He had learned young, in any confrontation, the moment you hesitated you were lost. “Sam-“
“Isn’t waiting up for you, and you and I both know it. So I can take you back now, and you can be ignored and drink yourself stupid. Or,” His lips brushed Dean’s ear, the scratch of his stubble sending a jolt across Dean’s skin. “-you take what you want from me, and I take you back in the morning. Face it, darling- he won’t even know you’re gone.”
Probably not, and that just made it all that much worse. “I don’t want anything from you.” He said it, though he could muster no conviction. They had fucked once already, fast and dirty. If they did it again, he knew Crowley would put his hand to the mark, and for the span of a few minutes, the ache in his arm and the ache in his chest would both cease to function. He wanted, God he wanted.
“Come now, haven’t we moved past all that?”
The kiss Dean gave Crowley first was all punishment, rough to the point of violence, harder than he knew Crowley wanted when he was like this, the high of human emotion compelling him to seek pleasure outside of pain. He gasped, arched into Dean anyway though the hand at the back of Dean’s head was still gentle, grasping and stroking with soft pressure.
They kissed until Dean was on top of him, until he’d almost forgotten there been an offer for more than another round in Crowley’s request.
“I know what you want.” Crowley panted, words slipped between kisses. “Even if you don’t.” Before Dean could answer he turned his head, bared his neck and tapped just there with his fingers, right over the dots that had never quite healed. The site of his first injections, of 7 syringes of Sam’s blood. Dean hovered over him, breathing, waiting. He knew how this exchange would go and still, he let it begin. “It was different, the trials. I tried to tell Sam; it bound us together. I can’t get rid of him, not all of it. Even without your blood, there’d be a little Winchester in me. Question is, could you taste it? Do you know how Sam’s blood feels on your tongue, Dean?”
He knew the feel of Sam’s everything, the sting of his sweat, the grip of his hands, the girth of his cock.
Crowley chuckled, licked his lips, made Dean wonder just what it was he saw in the face above him. Was the lust that plain in his eyes, the need? Disgusted, Dean’s eyes fluttered closed, his breath short and tight. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, God, of all the fucked up things he’d done-
Crowley’s hand clattered around on the bedside table, flailed until he found Dean’s pocket knife. Crowley slid it still closed against his own neck, slow and teasing. “Do it. Right there.”
“You’re one sick son of a bitch, you know that?” To Crowley or to himself, the words would be the same. Dean took the knife, palmed it, hated that his palms were dry. Of the two of them, perhaps his sickness was worse. Crowley was a demon with a dash of humanity; in theory at least Dean was still a man.
Crowley’s eyes were unreadable, dark and half lidded. There could have been jealousy, there. Jealousy, or desire, or pain. Maybe all, maybe none. Dean flipped the blade open, placed it. Crowley swallowed, and his skin dented against the press of steel though it didn’t break through.
“You can do it, love. Not too deep.”
Not too deep, but not too shallow, either. Blood seeped from the gash immediately, a steady flow, and Dean held the knife out to clatter on the hardwood floor before he put his mouth to it. It pulsed against his tongue, thick and rich. Beneath him Crowley writhed, cried out as he pressed into the sweet pain of Dean’s teeth nicking the edges of the cut at the base of his throat.
Crowley’s hands grappled against Dean’s hips, tugging him forward, sliding down to spread his thighs until Dean complied. He was still slick, still worked open and he took Crowley’s cock with only a single hiss of pain. Even that faded, wiped blank as Crowley’s left hand shifted to Dean’s forearm, his palm pressing flush against the mark. Dean’s cock twitched, trailing wet across Crowley’s stomach. He moaned, or maybe Crowley did; all Dean was certain of was the vibration, deep and hungry.
They maneuvered around each other’s limbs, settling in with Crowley up against the headboard and Dean straddling his hips to find a better equilibrium. After the kills Dean had made Crowley had taken him bent over the bed, his nails trailing sharp down Dean’s spine but they fucked now in a slow grind, restrained by the constants of Dean’s mouth on Crowley’s neck, Crowley’s hand on his arm.
When the blood slowed it was Crowley that jerked Dean’s head away. The kiss he took was messy, little more than a taste of his own blood on Dean’s lips before he pulled away. He bit down hard on Dean’s shoulder, harder than Sam, enough to break the skin. His hand clenched over the mark and Dean came with a sharp whine, his release spattering against Crowley’s chest.
From there, his mind drifted, sensation blurred. Crowley spilled into him and Dean slumped against his chest, though Dean wasn’t sure which came first. He could feel the tremors of his body as if from a distance, withdrawn and dazed. They moved together, uncoordinated, though there was a spike of clarity as Crowley’s fingertips trailed away from the mark. He stirred, gravitated back toward Crowley’s retreating hand until it pressed against his spine, light but enough to stop him.
“There, now. Why don’t you rest? You did well. We’re safe here. Sleep, and then I’ll take you home.”
He should go now, he should. He never should have stayed. Crowley pulled away, leaving the bed empty. Sam had always stayed, always, even when the AC in the motel was busted, even when he was angry. Well, in the past, at least. It was all another life away from here, a world beyond his reach. Dean’s fingers closed around a fold in the sheet, tightening until his knuckles stung. He could still see the blood of the men he’d killed on the back of his hand, the patterns left by the slice of the First Blade.
Crowley was right; Sam wouldn’t miss him. After all, he hadn’t seemed to yet, and this certainly wasn’t the first time. Besides, he felt too heavy to move, too heavy to find his phone, his keys. Maybe he’d sleep better here anyway, in a bed he’d never shared with his brother. On his arm Dean could feel the mark starting to twinge and he folded in toward it, tucking his head into the crook of his arm just before he fell asleep.
********
It was the sprawl of Dean across the bed that convinced him, the outright debauchery of the scene. He lay on his stomach above the covers, stark naked with his head turned into his arm, not quite far enough to hide the taint of blood on his lips. His shoulder and his back carried the marks of Crowley’s teeth, his nails. The slick trail from his ass and the sticky sheen of his thighs would leave little open to interpretation.
For all Crowley had accomplished, it seemed reasonable to assume his position was secure enough to gloat. Just a little. Well. He was better at grand gestures than small ones, really. And after all, Dean did make such a lovely picture. It was an easy matter to snap it, easier still to send it to Sam. No caption necessary, really, but he couldn’t resist.
Well, well. Look what I found. I don’t make a habit of taking in strays, but you know, I think I’ll keep him.