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spn_springflingTitle: Darkness
Pairing: Dean/Crowley, mentions of Dean/OFCs
Rating: R
Warnings: Season 11 spoilers, but with some season 10 inspired canon divergence. This isn’t a healthy relationship, but the sexual content is consensual.
--
Crowley is darkness. His name may not be Amara and he may not consume Dean in a literal swirl of black, but he kisses like sin and he’s Dean’s all-consuming cool pillow on a hot night.
They can hit karaoke bars and shoot back whiskey just like the old days. Dean’s a cowboy and Crowley plays posh with that secret glint in his eye that says he enjoys the degradation these bars bring.
Dean might end up with a different girl in his bed most nights, but that room only has one bed and Crowley has to fake sleep sometime.
(Well, not really -- but he does anyway.)
“So what are you planning to do?” Crowley asks Dean one morning -- night, afternoon, evening, medium of measurement in the space time continuum -- “Kill Amara or sleep with Amara?”
Dean doesn’t answer. He knows only one answer is possible but entertaining the thought seems to make it that much more certain. And Dean isn’t ready for certain. Dean won’t ever be ready for certain.
“Or do you go back and find Sam?”
“Shut up,” Dean mutters.
“Little Sammy still your sore spot?”
“Shut. Up.”
“Okay, okay.” Crowley raises his hands in mock defeat and lies back on the bed. “We won’t mention the moose.”
Dean continues to remain silent and now adds the refusal to meet Crowley eye-to-eye. Crowley has started a habit of flashing dark and Dean wants to avoid it. Avoid all of it. He wants to find the light that isn’t just Crowley flicking on a switch.
(But, until then, it is a good substitute.)
“Dean,” Crowley says.
Dean refuses to respond.
“Dean.”
“What?”
Instead of a verbal answer, Crowley cups Dean’s face and pulls their mouths together. Dean closes his eyes. Bright swirls of light dance until all he’s seeing is clean, pure, good.
(Not quite angel-righteous; that’s too far for Dean.)
Crowley has Dean’s pants down in an instant and only then can Dean look him in the eye, knowing Crowley is too caught up in what is happening to bother reminding Dean of who he is.
This is the one time in his life Dean feels more powerful than any other being on the planet -- supernatural or otherwise.
~ ~
It begins to rain once they’re done. Thick stormclouds rolling overhead that Dean watches until a crack of lightning looks too much like salvation. Too much like righteousness cutting through the darkness of evil. Too much like something Dean doesn’t deserve.
Crowley’s eyes are closed and he’s breathing. Yet another way to fuck Dean up -- pretend to be human. Pretend to be okay. Dean knows Crowley can just as easily stand there all night, staring and without sound, and that’s his natural state. His demon state.
“This weather is Amara’s calling card.” Crowley says. His eyes remain closed.
“Yeah, whatever,” Dean mutters. He lies back on his pillow and closes his eyes. If Amara appears, then Amara appears. Dean is tired of running.
Crowley’s hand touches Dean’s bare stomach. Dean doesn’t move. It’s peaceful. It’s quiet.
Dean sleeps.
Pairing: Dean/Crowley, mentions of Dean/OFCs
Rating: R
Warnings: Season 11 spoilers, but with some season 10 inspired canon divergence. This isn’t a healthy relationship, but the sexual content is consensual.
--
Crowley is darkness. His name may not be Amara and he may not consume Dean in a literal swirl of black, but he kisses like sin and he’s Dean’s all-consuming cool pillow on a hot night.
They can hit karaoke bars and shoot back whiskey just like the old days. Dean’s a cowboy and Crowley plays posh with that secret glint in his eye that says he enjoys the degradation these bars bring.
Dean might end up with a different girl in his bed most nights, but that room only has one bed and Crowley has to fake sleep sometime.
(Well, not really -- but he does anyway.)
“So what are you planning to do?” Crowley asks Dean one morning -- night, afternoon, evening, medium of measurement in the space time continuum -- “Kill Amara or sleep with Amara?”
Dean doesn’t answer. He knows only one answer is possible but entertaining the thought seems to make it that much more certain. And Dean isn’t ready for certain. Dean won’t ever be ready for certain.
“Or do you go back and find Sam?”
“Shut up,” Dean mutters.
“Little Sammy still your sore spot?”
“Shut. Up.”
“Okay, okay.” Crowley raises his hands in mock defeat and lies back on the bed. “We won’t mention the moose.”
Dean continues to remain silent and now adds the refusal to meet Crowley eye-to-eye. Crowley has started a habit of flashing dark and Dean wants to avoid it. Avoid all of it. He wants to find the light that isn’t just Crowley flicking on a switch.
(But, until then, it is a good substitute.)
“Dean,” Crowley says.
Dean refuses to respond.
“Dean.”
“What?”
Instead of a verbal answer, Crowley cups Dean’s face and pulls their mouths together. Dean closes his eyes. Bright swirls of light dance until all he’s seeing is clean, pure, good.
(Not quite angel-righteous; that’s too far for Dean.)
Crowley has Dean’s pants down in an instant and only then can Dean look him in the eye, knowing Crowley is too caught up in what is happening to bother reminding Dean of who he is.
This is the one time in his life Dean feels more powerful than any other being on the planet -- supernatural or otherwise.
~ ~
It begins to rain once they’re done. Thick stormclouds rolling overhead that Dean watches until a crack of lightning looks too much like salvation. Too much like righteousness cutting through the darkness of evil. Too much like something Dean doesn’t deserve.
Crowley’s eyes are closed and he’s breathing. Yet another way to fuck Dean up -- pretend to be human. Pretend to be okay. Dean knows Crowley can just as easily stand there all night, staring and without sound, and that’s his natural state. His demon state.
“This weather is Amara’s calling card.” Crowley says. His eyes remain closed.
“Yeah, whatever,” Dean mutters. He lies back on his pillow and closes his eyes. If Amara appears, then Amara appears. Dean is tired of running.
Crowley’s hand touches Dean’s bare stomach. Dean doesn’t move. It’s peaceful. It’s quiet.
Dean sleeps.
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