Here with me
Chapter 1: The arrival
Crowley moved slightly, his mind fuzzy.
Not a bollocks-what-just-hit-me?! fuzzy.
More like a yeah, just like that fuzzy.
He was lying on his side, and felt totally relaxed.
He moved again, for the sheer pleasure of his cheek brushing against the fluffy thing under it.
It was like a caress – something soft and warm – and he couldn't resist but make a whole-body shift and try to get that delicious sensation all over his skin.
It worked.
That was definitively some of the best bed linen he ever had against him.
That was nice.
Specially because he was naked.
Good quality sheets were something he rarely enjoyed for the sheer pleasure of it, once he didn't sleep, so-
Wait.
If he didn't sleep, why was he feeling like he had just woken from a very needed slumber?!
Crowley opened his eyes without moving his body.
(No sense in calling unwanted attention to himself while he had no idea where he was and if there was anyone watching.)
First thing that called his attention was that he was in a well-lit room.
There probably was an enormous window somewhere, but he couldn't tell for sure: every surface was well defined and clear, no shadows in sight – almost as if the light didn't come from one or more sources, but was involving everything.
There was some furniture he could see, with shelves that covered the walls from floor to roof, filled with apparently old books.
There was a strangely captivating battered armchair, too.
The scents in the air were a mix of old paper, pine, grass after rain, coffee and something else that seemed familiar.
For a moment, Crowley almost remembered from where he knew those things.
It was like the whole setting was mismatched: the objects were familiar, but not totally recognizable; the sensations were recognizable, but he couldn't associate those nice scents and the comfortable bed linen involving his nude meatsuit with any precise memory.
And that engulfing light was just disconcerting.
Every detail focused and sharp in its perfection.
Wait again.
Perfection?
Old books and a cheap but comfortable armchair?
What-
There was movement in the bed behind him, and he tensed.
Something was making the covers shift.
A warm hand settled on his naked hip, 'Will you calm down, idjit?'
Crowley didn't turn.
He could barely speak.
'Robert?', he whispered.
'Who else?'
The hand travelled confidently to his front, stopping over his heart.
Crowley was pulled, gently but firmly, against a broad chest.
Once he was naked, he could feel that his bed companion was nude, too, in every hairy part of that body that pressed against his.
He gulped down, torn between the instinct to attack before whatever was happening turned into a nightmare and the oh, dear sensation of the warm male body against his back.
He made the necessary effort to rationalize the situation.
The Robert Singer he knew would never attack him without warning. He even warned before shooting, showing the gun and demanding for Crowley to leave. Of course, the demon never left, and the hunter shot him, as it had been properly announced.
(Robert was a man of his word. One of the reasons to like him.)
So, Crowley should not feel menaced by being naked and vulnerable, his back to someone who might be Bobby Singer or someone with knowledge enough to mimic him.
However, the Robert Singer he knew would never share a bed with the King of Hell in those terms.
They had something brief, mainly while Crowley had the other's man soul, and it was usually quite one-sided – in the sense that it was the demon who initiated every tryst, the hunter kind of 'permitted' himself to be seduced every time, the sex was quite quick and never discussed or mentioned in other contexts.
Their bond had been surprisingly strong, given the non-spoken rules and the hectic circumstances.
Even after Sam and Dean were back to the hunter's life and assisted Robert into getting his soul back, hunter and demon still met some times for something quite similar to make-up sex: Crowley had his pride wounded by being outsmarted, and to say he was annoyed when Robert summoned him, in the very next day of the redone contract, was not enough to describe his aggravation.
He expected to face a bragging redneck.
However, he had been called for a drink and to share stories on the last adventures they had been involved.
Any suspicions he could have melt, and Crowley was forced to admit, for the first time, that his attraction to that man was not Fate mocking him, making him bond with a surly hunter who was literate enough just to serve as reference to hunters more ignorant than him.
That night Crowley found out one of the things he most found engaging about Bobby was exactly the cultured and civilized man hidden under those layers of plaid and redneckery.
So, instead of feeding his previous thoughts of ambushing or manipulating Bobby Singer, that encounter made Crowley admit he had a lot to admire and respect in the man in front of him.
Besides, he couldn't really not find enticing that a human had managed to win a battle of wits and strategy against a three-hundred old demon. He even wondered if it gave sex between them – if they ever indulged in that again – a new layer of understanding.
Of course, Crowley thought their intimate routine was over, once Robert had found out about his human past.
It was mortifying.
All of it was mortifying: the miserable and mediocre existence in Scotland, the stupid tentative of a way out selling his soul, what he chose to sell his soul for, the relationship with Gavin.
The simple fact that his child had been so wretched that the only opportunity to build something better for himself ended in the deep of the ocean was mortifying in itself.
It was like his whole past had a stench of failure all over it, and now that Robert knew the details, being in Crowley's presence would bring that stench to the front lines.
To his surprise, those things were never mentioned after Bobby got his soul back. It was like that info had had its utility and should not be brought up again.
And if that unexpected elegant gesture was not enough, those things didn't stop Robert from still wanting Crowley in his bed.
(Or in that armchair that now he remembered, or in the old sofa, or in the kitchen table, or in his desk.)
And, to add insult to injury, Robert never used the fact they had sex to get anything from Crowley: he didn't ask for his soul in exchange of it, even when he could have done it; he didn't ask special favors for the boys or for any hunter, like protection or guarantees against demons.
Robert Singer had been the King's lover and never tried to use it to his benefit.
How could Crowley, who had been used to a whole existence of backstabbing, manipulation and lies, not get attached to such a gentleman?
Unfortunately, things happened, and they stopped seeing each other.
It was never officially over, but between Leviathans and Crowley's unexpected difficulties in the rise to power, both were too occupied to have safe meetings.
Bobby's death was the final blow to Crowley's already messed up mind, and things went downhill from there.
(The demon preferred not to think of what he had done since then. He surely was not proud of most of those things, nowadays.)
So, he had had a reasonably – for his standards – healthy relationship with Bobby, based on mutual respect and interests; however, Crowley was certain that, even with his surprising character arch of fighting besides the Winchesters and dying for them, it was not enough for him to be received in the arms of the hunter, wherever they were, for cuddling.
That is why he couldn't make his mind about the whole situation being dangerous or just plain crazy.
He should be seriously pondering on getting out of those arms and demand answers.
And he would do it.
Sure.
As soon as possible.
He just had to decide if the best strategy was shoving the man away or just turning over and facing him.
He could take his sweet time to reach a decision, couldn't he?
Nothing too bad would happen if he just stayed in those arms a bit more, would it?
He had gone through so many things, considering the sacrificing thing and all that jazz.
Just a bit more, and I'll-
Lips reached the side of his neck, nipping, and a shot of pleasure reached his groin.
A beard touched the sensitive spot behind his ear's vessel, and he rolled his eyes in pleasure.
Crowley was taken by memories of their times together.
The long chats before having sex.
The mix of teasing and silent understandings.
The exchange of knowing looks and heated stares.
The freely given information on hunts or demonic affairs.
The random stories on life experiences that uncovered surprising facts about the other.
('How many languages do you speak, Singer?!'
'What? Your Highness doubted a human could know so much?')
Not even mentioning the chemistry in bed.
How could he foresee, when he approached Singer for a deal, that he would be so engaged to that man?
It had been a very short thing, given their different paths in life. However, it marked Crowley so deeply that when he was informed Bobby had died he took his soul and kept it in Hell, in a secluded cell, wishing they had the opportunity to make up for the lost opportunities.
That was why he had taken the man's soul before it could reach Heaven.
That was why he kept his soul in a back room of Hell, as much far from the worst tortures as he could without raising suspicions.
One of his biggest regrets was not leaving his crazy pursuing of power aside for time enough to talk to Robert and convince him to stay in Hell, by his side.
At that point, the King would have offered anything for Robert's company.
Crowley had taken that soul for granted, and things seemed to be under control. However, Sam Winchester managed to rescue Bobby's soul and Naomi made sure to give it access to Heaven. Soon afterwards, Crowley himself was almost cured in the third trial, he got addicted to human emotions through blood and his suffering for losing the companionship he had built with Robert hurt even more.
The demon had never felt something like that and had no idea how to deal with it, besides staying close to grumpy Dean and generally grouchy Sam; so he did it and managed to go on with his existence.
It was again miserable and generally empty, but he was the bloody King of Hell.
He could cope.
Licks were added to the nipping on the side of his neck, the hand on his chest caressed and a powerful arousal, laced with the missing he had painfully buried inside him, made Crowley close his eyes and sigh.
Something told him he should stop it, but it was a distant alarmed voice that was not rational enough to bring up any decent arguments.
The man parted from him, and Crowley opened his eyes, surprised at the sudden lack of contact.
The hand on his chest pressed and he complied, sheets falling to his waist when he moved accordingly.
And there they were: Crowley, on his back, staring up to Bobby Singer, who was laying on his side and staring back at him.
The hunter's hand travelled up from Crowley's chest to his neck.
Crowley gulped, mild panic from the possibility of violence and the fact he could not find the strength to defend himself.
He was too eager and curious to see what happened next.
The hand went up to caress his jaw.
The feathery touch made Crowley's eyes go huge.
The hand reached the side of his head, fingers entwining deliciously in his hair.
Crowley, against his better instincts, moaned.
Singer smiled and leaned forward slowly, giving the other man time to brace for the kiss.
Their lips touched.
And that was when Crowley's world exploded.
It couldn't be more different from their first kiss – the one that had sealed the deal.
That one had started so awkward it gave the demon the idea of taking a photo just to mess with the hunter afterwards. However, as if Bobby had suddenly realized he had nothing to lose, it turned into a passionate lip-lock, massaging tongues and all.
(Crowley had paid dearly for mentioning Robert had used tongue in front of the Winchesters, by the way.
However, paying dearly was something he couldn't say he minded, in their relationship.)
That being said, this kiss didn't start awkward and didn't turn into pent-up passion.
It started delicate, like a greeting to someone you cherish and is back to you after some unbearable time apart, and grew intimate, as if their tongues had a life of their own and had to meet and embrace.
That sensation of bliss came back full force, and Crowley's whole body tingled.
His hesitation disappeared, the alarmed voice quieted down, and he found himself acting on desire and instinct: one of his hands reached to feel the hunter's back, one of his legs moved to brush against the other man's calves.
He was so taken by every delicious sensation it took him some moments to realize the hand that had been cradling his head was now travelling down.
When it teased his nipples, he whimpered.
When it palmed his stomach, he groaned in despair.
When it touched his penis, he jumped off the bed and stood at the opposite wall, as out of reach as he could.
Crowley could feel the heart of his meatsuit beating madly, his face blushed, his arousal pulsing.
He looked around, desperate for something to cover himself and feel at least a bit less exposed.
The man in the bed – muscular and beefy and hairy and for all that is damned, focus! – pushed off the sheets and sat. Dead serious, he picked a pillow and showed it to Crowley, 'You can use it'.
He threw the pillow and Crowley immediately put it over his middle.
And now he was standing, a perfectly white fluffy pillow in front of him, while facing a shameless naked and hard Robert Singer, who reached the edge of the bed and sat there, an understanding expression on his face.
Those serene blue eyes settled on him were unnerving, to say the least.
'Want me to speak first, or you already have your marbles organized enough to formulate a question?', Bobby asked.
Crowley was so shocked by the calmness he couldn't even speak.
And he wanted to, once he had a million questions.
Seeing the struggle so plain in his face got a reaction from Bobby.
He smiled.
It was such a tender smile that the barriers in Crowley's mind were undone and, out of renewed panic, he managed talking.
'Who are you?!'
'I'm Robert Singer, Fergus', the smile turned into a smirk, 'I thought waking up like that would help you recognize me, but it seems I was wrong'.
'You planned all this to make me feel at ease?', at the other's nodding, Crowley squinted, 'Because, as far as I remember, we never cuddled!'
'You always went away right after I was done', was the simple answer, 'Never had the opportunity', Bobby shrugged, 'Sue me for taking a chance now'.
'You really want me to believe that this…', Crowley had a hard time looking for demeaning adjectives, '…sickening sweet thing is Robert Singer's making and not an entity trying to fool me?', he scoffed, 'I may have turned soft, but I am not an idiot'.
'You turned soft already?', Bobby looked pointedly to the pillow covering the other man's middle, 'I remember you not being easily uninterested', he wiggled his brows, 'Age didn't do good to you'.
Crowley made a face at the innuendo.
Bobby got up from the bed.
Crowley gave a step behind, thinking the other had the intention of walking to him.
However, Robert stayed where he was and started stretching.
And now Crowley wished the hunter had walked towards him, so he could put a fight over the man's intentions, because this thing – watching while Singer stretched his muscles lazily –, was renewing his arousal and just generally getting to him.
The colors around them changed to something that seemed suspiciously like twilight coming from the big window behind the bed.
The new lightening made every layer of hair on that body turn into an attractive soft thing Crowley was just dying to touch.
And what to say about those muscles?
And the familiar bulge of that stomach?
And those shoulders?
'H-how…', he had to gulp down to be able to speak, 'How did you do it?'
'Did what?', Bobby focused on him, saw the gesture to the window and turned around to take a look at the shiny red sun in the horizon.
(The new position showed off his muscled back and nice ass, and Crowley licked his lips and clenched his fists on the pillow to deal with the things the image was doing to him.)
Bobby turned back, 'You mean the change in light?'
Crowley nodded, his throat dry.
'I like it, and I can do anything, here', the man smirked, 'We are in my Heaven'.