Why Hello Pretty Lady

[winchester_lost]

It was another shitty bar, in another shitty town. They were hunting down a particularly nasty Japanese spirit, of all fucking things, and after seeing a string of corpses that had been asphyxiated or with slit throats, and peeled skin, Dean thought he'd earned his intoxication and whatever pretty woman he happened to stumble home with.

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[winchester_lost]

Dean doesn't want that to be true. Doesn't want to have to face the sick reality of the things he did, things he enjoyed in Hell. He doesn't want to think about Alastair- not clothed in some orthodontist but the way he was in Hell- dark and strong and sleek with the power of ages, pushing him down, bending him, using him, humiliating him, and Dean wanting every breath of it. He wants to pretend that his denials meant anything, that Alastair wouldn't have done worse than kill him if Sam and Castiel hadn't been there to save him.

Then hands are sliding over his hips and there's a faint shiver he'd like to claim is revulsion. It's not. Hands grab his shirt, pulling it up, forcing his arms over his head as the cloth twists. That look in Crowley's eyes makes him swallow hard, trying to hide that darkness, the part that wants it rough. He's still trying to tell himself that he doesn't want this, but his body is betraying him with more and more surety.

Dean moans and his body shakes as the demon's thumbs brush against his nipples. It flares a spark of heat through him, and with his shirt on the ground his hands grasp at Crowley for the simple need of something to hold onto. His hands clutching, curving around his upper arms, grasping as his fingers dig in, gasping for breath. There's something about this, about the reverence and the hard touches that make him shake.

Dean's easy enough that when Crowley's shoving down his pants, he finds himself kicking off his denims, leaving them somewhere on the floor as he gasps for breath. His eyes are wide, arousal in bright greens as well as exposed flesh.