A/N: I've got my Supernatural groove back again. I had been having withdrawals and then when I was meant to be typing up a presentation I somehow managed to come up with this. To be fair, I have no idea where the hell this came from. I honestly do worry about myself.
This is set in mid- Season Six, and we're going to pretend that my lover - I mean, Crowley didn't go up in flames in 'Caged Heat' but was dragged away by the dashing older Winchester to be ever-so-charmingly tortured. Tu comprends? AUs are my reason for living. YAY.
Warning: Um, language, mentions of previous torture, Crowley being the suggestive bugger that he is, Dean getting caught up in the flow... Basically, HUGE Dean/Crowley. M'kay?
Disclaimer: No, I do not own Supernatural. Not even a teeny knife or weeny gun.
And life itself confided this secret to me: 'Behold, it said, 'I am that which must always overcome itself. Indeed, you call it a will to procreate or a drive to an end, to something higher, farther, more manifold..."
~Thus Spake Zarathustra II 12~
They circle each other, these two skilled predators. The taller of the two keeps his knife pointed firmly at the shorter man before him.
"I should kill you."
"Yes, you should. But you won't." Something that could only be classified as a purr escapes the shorter man, as his eyes glitter with a brand of malevolence and benevolence that really is unique only to him.
"And why do you think that?"
"You forget, darling, I can read your mind. I know exactly what you are thinking right now."
"Do you really?" his lips are pursed together in a thin line as his sarcastic words leave his mouth. He shakes his head, laughing slightly. Refuses to take his eyes of the thing in front of him. Points the sharp blade of his knife just that little further upwards.
"Of course I can," the smaller man smiles, a slow, lazy smile of someone who has the upper hand and knows it. Knows it all too well. He drops his hands into his deep coat pockets, utterly relaxed and at ease, "it is hardly a strenuous task, seeing as you are clearly lacking the intelligence compartment."
Dean growls, taking a step towards the currently trapped smaller man. He wonders, yet again, why he simply hasn't just killed the damn thing already. It's not as if there is anything keeping him back. Not as if there is any real threat of himself being killed or injured in doing so. He could kill the thing before him right now with not a care in the world, and be able to say justifiably that he had done the right thing.
Yet there is an inexplicably small part of him that is hesitant. And Dean doesn't know why. Nor does he want to.
Right?
He nods fiercely, whilst avoiding – for the first time since this scenario suddenly occurred – the sparkling dark brown eyes that are so clearly mocking him.
"Cat got your tongue, Deano?" the demon smirks, and a chuckle escapes his own fine lips. He tilts his head to one side, considering. Dean fights the urge to throttle the son of a bitch. He has work to do, and he fully intends to make good use of what he has in front of him.
"Feel free to laugh. It's the last thing you'll ever do."
The demon pouts childishly, yet he sticks his bottom lip out in a way that the oldest Winchester can only describe as… Seductive. Dean forces that thought out of his head, yet watches as the demon regards him with dark, knowing eyes.
"Really, darling. You should be a bit more considerate of my feelings. Anyone else would think that you actually mean the hurtful things you say!"
"And I wonder what gives them that idea?" Dean mutters under his breath, the familiar feeling of frustration and pent-up rage beginning to bubble beneath the surface. He glares at the demon, which merely drops him a wink. The eldest Winchester swears under his breath.
They look at each other for another long moment, during which Dean takes another step forward. And another. Then he is standing with the top of his shoes just touching the ring of salt before them. If he were to look up, he would see a wide, red circle filled with various occult symbols and ancient-looking letters. A Devil's Trap.
The demon just watches with a slightly sinister smirk, his dark eyes flashing brightly.
Dean can feel himself beginning to lose patience. They don't have time for the demon's antics. Dean doesn't have time to spare for this. He only volunteered to be the one to talk to the demon because Sam was in one of those strange I'm-souless moods, and the hunter wasn't sure if he wanted his baby brother to be hanging around a demon right now. And Bobby believed Dean wanted to be the responisible big brother and fight for Sam's interests. Which, of course, was the case.
Right?
"Listen, Crowley," he breaks the silence suddenly, looking the demon again in the eye, "you're gonna do exactly what I tell you-"
"I'm not a sub, Deano. But with you barking out orders… Well, it does sound rather tempting, I must admit," the demon interrupts him with a very deadpan expression, and Dean is forced to conclude that Crowley is probably at least semi-serious, if not more.
"I want Sam's soul," Dean says, having decided to ignore the previous statement uttered so candidly by the demon. He idly twirls the sharp knife about in his hands. "Sam needs his soul back. And you're gonna get it back for him. You got it?"
Crowley sighs dramatically, and he is acting almost as if he didn't have blood trickling from his mouth, or from his forehead. As if he didn't have various burn marks across his arms and neck because of Holy Water. As if he was in charge. He is acting as if he is utterly at ease with his surroundings, and Dean finds himself disliking it.
"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, Winchester," the apparent King of Hell rolls his eyes to the heavens, which Dean finds quite ironic, "Even if I were to gather dearest Sammy's soul for you, do you know what state it would be in? Michael and Lucifer have been using it to pass the time down there, of that I have no doubt. It's probably been torn to shreds," he breaks off suddenly, a barely visible shudder running down his frame, "like I nearly was when I popped in. Look, just face facts, alright? There is nothing you or I or even your angel boyfriend can do."
Dean slowly shakes his head as Crowley finishes speaking. He clenches and unclenches his jaw, wondering how his frustration has been kept in check for so long. It would appear to be a new record, he believes.
"That's just not good enough, Crowley. You went in there once; you can go in there again. Either that, or I'll happily tear you to shreds myself."
Crowley laughs, lazily wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. It's smeared all over his lips, Dean notices. Somehow, the blood makes the demon's lips look just that little bit more -
- Lisa. Think of Lisa. Think of kissing her. Nothing could possibly be better than that, right? Yeah. 'Course not.
"With all due non-existent respect, I would rather take my chances with you than with them, darling."
Angrily, Dean tosses another beaker of recently-blessed Holy Water over the demon. Who cannot prevent a cry of pain escaping his bloody lips. Dean smiles in satisfaction relishing the chance to put himself back in charge. Just the way it should be. As in, hunter against supernatural bastard. Of course. That was the exact reason why.
"That was the wrong answer."
A pause. Then –
"You don't say, Deano." The demon coughs, a harsh hacking noise which forces him to arch his back. More blood drips from his mouth. Yet he soon straightens out and looks at the oldest Winchester, eyes feverishly bright and with a bloody smile.
"You know what I did durin' my stint in Hell, right?" it is not so much of a question that a mere confirmation, and Crowley rolls his eyes in exasperation. Dean ignores him and continues, "I can, and I will, torture you to death if I have to. 'Cause you're gonna get my brother's soul back, or else I will kill you."
"And here we go again with the death threats," Crowley gracefully raises a hand to his mouth as if to cover up a yawn, before dropping it back into his pocket with the same grace. "What is it with you, Winchester? Do you believe that the more you say a lie, the more akin to the truth it becomes?"
Dean swears furiously. Again, he wonders why he hasn't killed the snarky son of a bitch yet –
- "Yes, why have you not?" Glittering eyes seem to glow in the semi-darkness –
- But he honestly does not know why. Yet he looks down at the knife he holds in his hands, and carelessly glances at the bottles of Holy Water and containers of salt, and forces himself to think about what exactly is at stake here.
He tries hard to ignore the low chuckling that dares to interrupt his swirling thoughts.
Sam's soul. Sammy. His little brother. He got him back, but there was such a vital piece missing from him. Dean wants his brother back properly now. And no matter how much Sam protests against the idea, Dean knows that Sam needs his soul back too. Dean does not care how many demons – hell, angels too – stand in his way. He will happily kill them all.
"Then start with me, Dean."
The oldest Winchester slowly turns his head around to face the smirking demon, and it hasn't escaped his notice that Crowley has actually called him by his name and not some nickname instead.
"Go on. One little quick thrust and then I'm gone completely."
Dean refuses to accept that there may be another, hidden meaning behind those words.
"Go on…" Crowley's voice has dropped to a mere whisper this time, and his accent suddenly sounds so oddly provocative that Dean blinks, "Go on, Dean. You know you want to…"
There is a pause, and then Dean lunges suddenly at the demon, the taunts and teasing having finally taken its toll on the hunter. He steps into the Devil's Trap, and has the blade at the demon's throat with a single fluid motion. He's breathing heavily, he notices. And once again has no idea as to why.
Crowley is smiling as if he does.
"That's better," the demon murmurs, "much better…"
Dean finds himself tightening the hold on the knife, tightening the hold he has on the demon. It is then that he realises that Crowley really is completely at his mercy. For all his powers, all his supernatural strength, being caught in a Devil's Trap renders him vulnerable. A smirk spread across Dean's features.
"What am I thinkin' now, you son of a bitch?" he says heatedly, and is not at all surprised to see that smirk merely widen at his words. Dean blearily wonders if Crowley never smirks, or is it simply something he exclusively reserves for Dean. Along with being a pain in the ass.
Crowley chuckles and Dean could swear he can feel the vibrations at his fingertips. "The exact same thing that you were thinking when you previously asked me."
Dean ignores the sudden increased pounding of his heart and instead lightly drags the knife over the skin of the demon's neck. A low moan issues from deep within the demon's throat, but Dean is not entirely sure if it is wholly of pain or it is combined with something else he doesn't want to dwell to deeply on. He forces himself to focus on the task at hand, and digs the blade in a little harder.
"Which is?" the question leaves the hunter's lips a tad too quickly for his liking.
"The reason for why you would not kill me."
The blade sinks in a little deeper, and again the demon moans breathlessly. Dean watches blood inch down Crowley's neck, staining the shirt collar there with careless abandon.
"That will take a while to come out," the demon murmurs, an elegant finger suddenly tracing the bloodstain. Dean just stares, fixated on the sight and -
- Lisa's fingers when she strokes his hair in the mornings to get him up -
"Which is?" the hunter asks impatiently, trying to disguise the tremor in his voice. Part of him longs for the demon to give him an answer; any answer, that Dean could use to kill him and clean his hands of the thing that had tormented them for so long.
Yet…
Yet there was still that annoyingly small part of him that also wanted Crowley to answer him. Even if Dean was afraid of what the answer may be.
There is another pause, and it in Time seems to stand still. Emerald green eyes meet and connect with dark brown.
"Why won't I kill you, Crowley? Huh?" Dean cannot help himself as the words spill into the small patch of air that hovers between the two close figures. "Why-"
"Because you are utterly attracted to me, and quite desperate to fuck me senseless," the demon drawls almost lazily, his dark brown eyes suddenly looking bigger and wider. The words freeze Dean completely as they pierce his ramblings, and Crowley's accent just makes the words all the more seductive, "and no matter how many times you try to deny it; try to bury it in your thoughts, it's still there. It's still true."
"Hey, Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"Do demons ever tell you the truth?"
"…I guess. When they know it'll mess with your head…"
The hunter remains shell-shocked, as the demon –his prey - in his grasp just smirks at him. The knife may still be at his throat, may still very well be piercing several layers of skin, but Crowley looks so calm and so in control that Dean cannot help but wonder how the demon manages to do it. Control and manipulate people so easily. He almost admires him. Yet, the eldest Winchester dislikes it at the same time.
He thinks so, anyway.
And that nagging doubt at the back of his mind, firmly rooted there by years of the same constant drill courtesy of his father – demons are your worst enemy, they read your mind, lie and tell the truth when it will hurt you the most – urges him to ignore this revelation (or is it such a surprise to hear what had just been spoken aloud?) and simply resume his torture, and finish Crowley off.
Dean frowns, considering -
- Lisa. Lisa. Lisa Lisa Lisa -
Then he lightly shrugs his shoulders. Lets the knife slip from his hands to the floor where it lands with a harsh clang.
Both predators ignore it.
Dean's mouth collides with the demon's with such force that they are nearly sent backwards. A glass of Holy Water smashes to the ground, but neither notice. He can taste the blood present on the demon's lips, and cannot help but feel proud of his handiwork. He likes the demon not being in control, like him being totally vulnerable.
So he bites down hard on Crowley's lower lip, relishing the gasp the action drags out, and soon finds him pushing the demon – none too gently – to the floor.
"What am I thinkin' now, Crowley?" Dean asks harshly, as teeth meet teeth and tongues meet tongues.
Crowley laughs. And although his eyes suddenly flash a startling white, Dean ignores them.
They were damned anyway.
Yup. I've done it again. Anyone request another round of Slash, by any chance...? O.o