Fic: No Expenses Spared
Title: No Expenses Spared
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Crowley
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Blood
Spoilers: 5x10
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: In which Dean fraternises with the enemy.
AN: Written for mia6363 for the Five Acts meme.
Dean doesn't trust Crowley. That's like an immutable law, set in stone, laminated and embossed in gold. Because he's a demon and it's just fucking sensible. Even the ones that like you would sell you for a nice patch of world real estate...or something shiny.
But Crowley's smart. Much as Dean hates to admit it. He's smart and he's old and when Bobby hits a brick wall Dean knows there's always at least one more step. It's a reassurance he doesn't have to like.
So, when Crowley says he can help them, that he can maybe try some things that might mean they'll no longer be vessel material. Dean believes him.
The how, he's not so happy about.
Dean steps up to the plate. Since he's still not willing to give Sam secret, magical alone time with a demon. He still doesn't regret that. He's just finding the irony pretty annoying right now.
Ten minutes ago this had been awkward. Spread out face down on some expensive carpet with the slide of fine suit material across his thighs and ass. That had been awkward. That had been the very centrepiece of the awkward dining table.
This, this is even more awkward, because now he's mostly naked, and on the floor and being slowly painted and written on with the bright red of Crowley's own blood. Like some sort of unwilling sacrifice. He can feel the drag and slide and press of Crowley's fingertips. Spreading it over the skin.
Dean had been prepared for warm and gross. He'd gritted his teeth and waited for it.
He'd not been prepared for the little shiver of heat and lightening under the tackiness of it, for the feel of it trailing in lines down his back like it was alive. Curling down into the skin in shivery little waves of sensation, before the spell even starts.
Fucking - hell. How in the name of God did Sam ever drink this stuff? Or maybe it's just Crowley, maybe Crowley's blood is like the demon equivalent of really good scotch to the peasant mass's cheap-ass beer flavour.
Either way it's a surprise, and Dean doesn’t like surprises, doesn't like them, doesn't trust them.
"This would go a lot quicker if you could manage to restrain your constant fidgeting," Crowley says firmly. Drawing out each word like he has all the time in the world, but still thinks Dean's wasting it.
"It fucking burns," Dean says. Which is a lie, or at the very least a mutilation of the truth.
Because that's easier than admitting that he has an erection, than admitting that he's breathing through his teeth while the not-burn of it tightens and flares into solid want.
Crowley makes a noise like he doesn't believe him, clean hand catching briefly on Dean's waist when he leans up to finish a curling shape on his left shoulder. Familiar in a way that grates and stabs and feels too much like sex. And now he's close enough for Dean to feel every sliding flare of breath on the back of his neck.
He grits his teeth and clenches his toes and tries to think about nothing at all. The slide and shift of Crowley's knees and the slow rock of weight onto Dean's ass is pretty noticeable. But Dean will not, he will not try and ease his thighs apart to relieve the pressure, or get more pressure. Or in any way think the word 'pressure.' He's just going to lay here with his forehead mashed against his arm and ignore it all.
A thumb trails down his spine, painting a wet line and every nerve ending in his body rings like a bell. It reminds him exactly how long it's been. A weight of greedy lust all at once that he bites down on and breathes through.
Until the thumb curls over the top of his ass in one confident line. Dean completely fails to hold in the quiet, throaty noise then, and Crowley notices it, because he stops moving.
"You might want to stop making sounds like that," the demon says smoothly. "Or you're not going to be the only one rocking your erection into the nearest available hard surface."
Dean goes very still.
"It's hard to maintain a professional distance when you sound like you want me to fuck you. So I suggest you stop," Crowley adds.
Dean hates him for sounding so calm. Hates him for a lot of thing, but mostly he currently hates him for waking up the steady thrum of bright arousal with his damn fingerpainting.
Also, the list of people that get to tell Dean what to do is very, very short, and Crowley isn't on it.
He shoves back into Crowley's hands without even thinking about it, one rough movement of greed and aggression and spite.
Crowley digs his fingers in and growls and it's in no way a civilised noise.
It's such a bright tangle of sex and violence that Dean's next breath comes in rough.
There's a moment of stillness, like they're both testing - then they both move at once, Dean's boxer shorts are dragged down his thighs, legs pushed open so Crowley can slip between them.
The wet push of slick fingers into him is expected. And Dean knows exactly what Crowley's using for lube. It's wrong and it's kind of disgusting but he's too busy grunting rough, encouragement and trying to find some way to convince himself this isn't the most messed up idea he's ever had. Because, yeah, he and Sam are going to join the same club and Dean's going to lose any and all moral ground privileges.
He's thinking all of that while he's sliding up to his knees and dropping to his elbows and letting Crowley - fuck, fuck - slide in tight and hot and slippery, bigger than Dean's ready for. He's breathing groans into the expensive patterned carpet, noises that are half delirious, achy lust and half something darker and a little more ashamed.
The noise that comes from behind him sounds more stunned than anything else. Dean shoves back and takes it all and turns that noise into something wet and vicious. He proves that the civilised fucking smartass is all blood and fury underneath. Then loses his breath when he's hauled up to his knees, angle raw and deep in a way that wrecks him.
Crowley's mouth is too close to his ear, voice gone dark and messy where it's purring words into it and against his skin. Dean tightens and shoves back to shut him up, feels the wet dig of teeth into his neck. But there are no more words.
"Harder." Dean's voice comes out demanding instead of desperate. It's rough and dirty and all sorts of wrong. He gets what he wants and can barely take it. Sharp little slices of pleasure and pain.
Crowley never touches him, not once. But Dean's gasping and shaking, unravelling on every rough thrust. Until he groans and tightens and comes, swearing and trembling and over-sensitive under every push. Until Crowley breaks as well, shoves him back down onto his elbows and drives in hard enough for Dean to choke on a breath. And the wet pressure inside him leaves him groaning and cursing. Fucked out and shaky and loose with pleasure in a way he should be ashamed of.
Until he's sprawled face-down on the carpet again, spots and streaks of Crowley's blood everywhere.
Dean rolls his eyes to the side and finds the demon eyeing him carefully, like he's wondering if this qualifies him for special Winchester attention.
He doesn't look half as tidy, the shirt he had pushed to his elbows has unrolled on one side, and there's blood striped all over it.
"Fuck," Dean says quietly. Because he's fairly sure he's going to have to shower and start all over again.
Also, yeah, he probably shouldn't have done that.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Crowley
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Blood
Spoilers: 5x10
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: In which Dean fraternises with the enemy.
AN: Written for mia6363 for the Five Acts meme.
Dean doesn't trust Crowley. That's like an immutable law, set in stone, laminated and embossed in gold. Because he's a demon and it's just fucking sensible. Even the ones that like you would sell you for a nice patch of world real estate...or something shiny.
But Crowley's smart. Much as Dean hates to admit it. He's smart and he's old and when Bobby hits a brick wall Dean knows there's always at least one more step. It's a reassurance he doesn't have to like.
So, when Crowley says he can help them, that he can maybe try some things that might mean they'll no longer be vessel material. Dean believes him.
The how, he's not so happy about.
Dean steps up to the plate. Since he's still not willing to give Sam secret, magical alone time with a demon. He still doesn't regret that. He's just finding the irony pretty annoying right now.
Ten minutes ago this had been awkward. Spread out face down on some expensive carpet with the slide of fine suit material across his thighs and ass. That had been awkward. That had been the very centrepiece of the awkward dining table.
This, this is even more awkward, because now he's mostly naked, and on the floor and being slowly painted and written on with the bright red of Crowley's own blood. Like some sort of unwilling sacrifice. He can feel the drag and slide and press of Crowley's fingertips. Spreading it over the skin.
Dean had been prepared for warm and gross. He'd gritted his teeth and waited for it.
He'd not been prepared for the little shiver of heat and lightening under the tackiness of it, for the feel of it trailing in lines down his back like it was alive. Curling down into the skin in shivery little waves of sensation, before the spell even starts.
Fucking - hell. How in the name of God did Sam ever drink this stuff? Or maybe it's just Crowley, maybe Crowley's blood is like the demon equivalent of really good scotch to the peasant mass's cheap-ass beer flavour.
Either way it's a surprise, and Dean doesn’t like surprises, doesn't like them, doesn't trust them.
"This would go a lot quicker if you could manage to restrain your constant fidgeting," Crowley says firmly. Drawing out each word like he has all the time in the world, but still thinks Dean's wasting it.
"It fucking burns," Dean says. Which is a lie, or at the very least a mutilation of the truth.
Because that's easier than admitting that he has an erection, than admitting that he's breathing through his teeth while the not-burn of it tightens and flares into solid want.
Crowley makes a noise like he doesn't believe him, clean hand catching briefly on Dean's waist when he leans up to finish a curling shape on his left shoulder. Familiar in a way that grates and stabs and feels too much like sex. And now he's close enough for Dean to feel every sliding flare of breath on the back of his neck.
He grits his teeth and clenches his toes and tries to think about nothing at all. The slide and shift of Crowley's knees and the slow rock of weight onto Dean's ass is pretty noticeable. But Dean will not, he will not try and ease his thighs apart to relieve the pressure, or get more pressure. Or in any way think the word 'pressure.' He's just going to lay here with his forehead mashed against his arm and ignore it all.
A thumb trails down his spine, painting a wet line and every nerve ending in his body rings like a bell. It reminds him exactly how long it's been. A weight of greedy lust all at once that he bites down on and breathes through.
Until the thumb curls over the top of his ass in one confident line. Dean completely fails to hold in the quiet, throaty noise then, and Crowley notices it, because he stops moving.
"You might want to stop making sounds like that," the demon says smoothly. "Or you're not going to be the only one rocking your erection into the nearest available hard surface."
Dean goes very still.
"It's hard to maintain a professional distance when you sound like you want me to fuck you. So I suggest you stop," Crowley adds.
Dean hates him for sounding so calm. Hates him for a lot of thing, but mostly he currently hates him for waking up the steady thrum of bright arousal with his damn fingerpainting.
Also, the list of people that get to tell Dean what to do is very, very short, and Crowley isn't on it.
He shoves back into Crowley's hands without even thinking about it, one rough movement of greed and aggression and spite.
Crowley digs his fingers in and growls and it's in no way a civilised noise.
It's such a bright tangle of sex and violence that Dean's next breath comes in rough.
There's a moment of stillness, like they're both testing - then they both move at once, Dean's boxer shorts are dragged down his thighs, legs pushed open so Crowley can slip between them.
The wet push of slick fingers into him is expected. And Dean knows exactly what Crowley's using for lube. It's wrong and it's kind of disgusting but he's too busy grunting rough, encouragement and trying to find some way to convince himself this isn't the most messed up idea he's ever had. Because, yeah, he and Sam are going to join the same club and Dean's going to lose any and all moral ground privileges.
He's thinking all of that while he's sliding up to his knees and dropping to his elbows and letting Crowley - fuck, fuck - slide in tight and hot and slippery, bigger than Dean's ready for. He's breathing groans into the expensive patterned carpet, noises that are half delirious, achy lust and half something darker and a little more ashamed.
The noise that comes from behind him sounds more stunned than anything else. Dean shoves back and takes it all and turns that noise into something wet and vicious. He proves that the civilised fucking smartass is all blood and fury underneath. Then loses his breath when he's hauled up to his knees, angle raw and deep in a way that wrecks him.
Crowley's mouth is too close to his ear, voice gone dark and messy where it's purring words into it and against his skin. Dean tightens and shoves back to shut him up, feels the wet dig of teeth into his neck. But there are no more words.
"Harder." Dean's voice comes out demanding instead of desperate. It's rough and dirty and all sorts of wrong. He gets what he wants and can barely take it. Sharp little slices of pleasure and pain.
Crowley never touches him, not once. But Dean's gasping and shaking, unravelling on every rough thrust. Until he groans and tightens and comes, swearing and trembling and over-sensitive under every push. Until Crowley breaks as well, shoves him back down onto his elbows and drives in hard enough for Dean to choke on a breath. And the wet pressure inside him leaves him groaning and cursing. Fucked out and shaky and loose with pleasure in a way he should be ashamed of.
Until he's sprawled face-down on the carpet again, spots and streaks of Crowley's blood everywhere.
Dean rolls his eyes to the side and finds the demon eyeing him carefully, like he's wondering if this qualifies him for special Winchester attention.
He doesn't look half as tidy, the shirt he had pushed to his elbows has unrolled on one side, and there's blood striped all over it.
"Fuck," Dean says quietly. Because he's fairly sure he's going to have to shower and start all over again.
Also, yeah, he probably shouldn't have done that.