Title: The Downward Spiral
Author: OpheliacAngel
Pairings: Sam/Crowley, mentions of Sam/Dean
Genres: Romance/Angst
Rating: Mature
Summary: He holds Dean in his dreams as if he never left at all, and Crowley is always there for the calling during the lonely days and nights. Spoilers for 'Do You Believe in Miracles?'
A/N: Written for Day 5 of #queersamweek on tumblr, which is Headcanons. Sorry for lateness (again), life is stressful right now. When thinking about headcanons this usually isn't what comes to mind; it's much dirtier and darker than I intended but I love how it turned out. Title comes from the Nine Inch Nails album.
Every time Sam summons Crowley he comes, just like Castiel came every time Dean prayed to him -
Grief-stricken, heartbroken, like Sam now is.
He doesn't know why he can't stop summoning Crowley, why he can't get enough of him, of seeing the knowing grin on his face when he appears in the devil's trap willingly every time, like he enjoys it too. He gets hard when he imagines the demon's hand around his throat, demanding Sam for answers as to why he's wasting his precious time, and comes loud and hot when Crowley kisses him, tongue dipping further down his throat, trying to get all of the human that he can.
Sam never talks much anymore, not to himself to keep himself company and not to Crowley. He has nothing to say to the demon who he once hated and now loves in such a sick, fucked up way anyway. He just breathes hard, never begging for more, never begging for Crowley to stay, who never leaves anyway unless Sam gives him that vicious look that comes so easily to him.
Crowley doesn't talk much either, encouraging Sam at the start but not so much as the days and nights wear on. He calls Sam pet occasionally, petting his hair as if Sam really is his personal lap dog. He calls him sweetheart and moose and sometimes Sam can swear he hears Dean's voice when he's saying them.
He hates Crowley for having him like this, loves him for always being able to depend on him.
What once was one summoning in a day turns into two and then morphs into three. After a while, he loses track and thinks it may have turned into five times that one horrible day, where he couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't get out of bed. The exact number blurs because Crowley stays more often than not, even when Sam's too weak to initiate sex, stays to watch Sam breathe and lose his mind, stays to get something for himself that Sam doesn't know about, can't care about.
He summons Crowley every time he needs him, wants him, can't afford not to have him. The sex is always quick and rough, in a cramped, uncomfortable chair or on a too-small table or on hardwood floor that digs into Sam's back mercilessly with every thrust.
The demon sits in his lap and grips Sam's head in his hands so fiercely that his perpetual headache turns into a migraine; he slams into Sam so hard that he sees stars, the same magnificent stars that night where he brought his beautiful Dean to a still and quiet lake, washing his face and his hair, cursing Castiel for not being there and Metatron for taking his brother from him before he had a chance to tell him how much he loved him, before he had a chance to show him; but he never once interrupts Sam's dreams with Dean, never once taints them with his sardonic smile, his meaty hands or his filthy intentions, but never as dirty as Sam's are.
He can't stop, won't stop and knows that deep down he shouldn't stop anyway.
These little meetings are keeping him alive, giving him a reason to wake up every morning.
Crowley comes when he doesn't call too, when Sam is fitfully sleeping, hands clenched into fists as he pummels his pillow in rage, as he still holds Dean's head in his hands in his dreams, washing the blood off his lifeless brother's face with his tears. The demon comes to him and places slow, sloppy kisses on Sam's chest, on his neck and even in his hair. The sex is languid and dream-like, and Sam drags himself ever downward into the black hole that is his demon lover's eyes, begs Crowley not to let him resurface again.
It's a cycle, all an endless cycle, but Sam would be lying through his teeth if he said he didn't want it.
FIN