A/N: Come on, we all had to be wondering what Crowley heard all those weeks. And this is Wincest, so fair warning. I do not own Supernatural. I did own your mother last night. Twice.
Ear Pressed Against the Door
Crowley loved the finer things in life (this life, anyways) and was not above lying, cheating or stealing to get what he wanted.
Or, as in the case of his newly acquired abode, a flick of the wrist and a quick flash of silver before a dagger is buried in soft flesh. Actually, now that he thinks about it, most of the pretty little things he owns have been bought in blood. Funny, but that's what seems to happen when you deal with a demon.
This particular philosophy – the ultimate smash and grab, so to speak – was also how he ended up alone in his living room, the voices of the Winchester brothers occasionally overpowering the crackle of his delicious fire.
Fire that he preferred to be at least five feet away from at all times thank you very much. Hell leaves one with some interesting memories. Crowley is old, but he's not old enough to have forgotten the tortures he endured when he first made that little trip to the basement. They're faded and patchy, for sure, but they are most definitely not gone.
In Hell, they can make fire burn inside of you.
So yes, Crowley appreciates the ambiance of the flames. But it's something to be admired from afar. You can't trust fire.
Crowley shifts, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. He sips his wine lazily, freezing only for a moment when he hears baby brother Winchester speak. It is only a quick pause, though, and then he continues drinking, amused.
Apparently the moose had to urinate. Delightful.
Despite all of their "us against the world" bluster, that brotherly love shit they spew wherever they go, Crowley has found the Winchesters to be a cold couple. He's been listening to them for weeks now, after all, and the most he's heard them speak to each other is when they're hunting.
Crowley planted his sneaky little device to keep tabs on how things were looking on the Lucifer front, but he must admit he's disappointed with the lads. He expected a bonus for the tedious venture of listening to hours of silence peppered with mundane chitchat. Perhaps some juicy Winchester gossip to brighten his evenings.
Instead he is stuck with crap music and brothers who act civil, like strangers. Polite, but distanced.
It does get a bit exciting during hunts, but not very. After all, the boys only have their clunky knives and guns. Where is the art in such a limited medium? Crowley has come to expect hunters to be a crass, boring bunch, and the Winchesters are no exception. And that is beyond a letdown.
Not that he truly expected them to start braiding each other's hair and talking about the cutest boys in school, but this is a disgrace. Where is the pain? The twisted secrets of their lives?
For surely there are many. You can't come out normal after their upbringing.
But for now those damaged children were keeping the lid tight on fucking everything.
Bastards.
He didn't hear the car stop, but he notices the silence now. Hears someone twist, leather against leather, and thinks Dean.
"Sam," the elder Winchester says, and Crowley is suddenly leaning forward in his seat because there's something achingly familiar about the tone of his voice. Slightly deeper, rough.
Crowley thinks the prissy baby is about to cry. It wouldn't surprise the demon very much if the bitch cried quite a lot. In fact, Crowley is astonished that Deanie hadn't started sobbing earlier when he apologized to his brother for not believing in him.
There's the sound of more scuffling, quicker this time, and Crowley can almost picture Sammy reaching out to pat his brother on the shoulder in a gruff, manly fashion. Trying to comfort his wreck of a sibling after the double loss of Adam and Castiel.
What he hears, instead, is an abrupt stop of movement and Sam's panicked, "Dean, wait."
What exactly was going on here? A fight about to take place? In a car? Did they do fucking everything in that car?
Jeez, boys, take it outside. Think of the upholstery.
"Sammy . . . I wanna – just a little -"
And holy fuck cause Crowley has just realized what had caused ol' Dean's voice to turn gravelly earlier. That shift in tone that had nagged at his subconscious.
Arousal.
After a brief, powerful burst of recognition and shock, Crowley is struck by an equally powerful wave of lust. The god damned Winchester brothers! No, no, this was just too damn good. The holier-than-thou fucking Winchesters, who still believed they were on some kind of pedestal. Somehow they still thought they were above the things they hunted, even after Dean had sliced apart souls and Sam had gotten messy with a demon before drinking blood.
Those same Winchesters who were apparently brothers with benefits.
All those weeks of waiting and he finally had something interesting. Crowley palmed his hardening cock, confused about whether he was turned on by the thought of exactly how twisted they were or the image of those sculpted, beautiful boys making the nasty.
"Dean, man, we talked about this. You – you said that -"
"I know what I fucking said!" Dean shouts back, and Crowley groans.
Not only sex, but twisted, angsty sex. Dear god, he might come before they even get started. Crowley takes a deep breath and moves his hand from his groin to his thigh. He squeezes the flesh there, hard.
When Dean speaks again, he sounds more calm, but Crowley can still detect the rage and heat in his voice.
"Yeah, well, you had just left me for a fucking demon bitch, and -"
"How many times do you want me to apologize, huh, Dean? You think I don't punish myself for that, every day? So, yeah, I fucked up. I'm sorry, and I've tried, and you – you left me first, Dean! You-"
Dean cuts him off angrily.
"I left you? You high? Cause you're the one in the family who has problems running off!"
There's an explosion of activity, flesh smacking against flesh. As much as Crowley would like to chalk it up to the brothers finally getting down to business, he thinks they really are fighting this time. What a damn waste.
He hears someone get slammed against the seat, grins at the sound of bone hitting something hard. Probably a knee bashing against the dashboard. Another brief scuffle, and the slam happens again. It sounds final this time.
"Get off me!"Sam growls and Crowley has a sudden flash of being in Dean's place, holding that bear of a man down, watching him struggle while sweat -
Easy, Crowley. Don't wanna end this show early.
"Fuck you, Sam. You and your little 'poor me' bullshit."
There are a few quick movements, and Crowley somehow knows Dean is rubbing against Sam with rough pulls of his hips.
To see that brutal, sexual energy. . . Against his own will, Crowley's hand begins to furiously rub his dick. He falls back into his chair, hazy from his own lustful imagination.
He wonders if Dean might actually rape his brother. God, that would be hot.
"You want this so bad, Dean? I'm not the one who avoided you after what happened in high school. You treated me like a pariah. You're the one who crawled into my damned bed, then left!"
The words are harsh, but Sam sounds small and wounded. There's anger, sure, but Crowley might have been wrong about Dean. Cause now it seems like baby brother might be the one to start bawling.
Then there's only panting breaths for a while. Sam makes this little hurt moan, and Crowley lets out a growl of triumph at the same time as Dean. The demon has his cock out, pumping it in time with those frantic gasps.
Then it stops.
"Ah, god, Sammy . . ."
Crowley curses at the guilty tone of Dean's voice. That little fucker better not have an attack of conscious now. Crowley isn't done yet, and now that he has heard the real thing there is no way he is going to be satisfied with simply picturing those boys and all the terrible things they do to each other. And if he can't see it, he damn well wants to hear it.
But it seems as if his fears are unfounded, for after a brief scuffle (Sam trying to escape, again?) Dean is once again making Sam produce those lovely, broken sounds.
"Sam, never stopped wanting you. Was so guilty afterwards, thought I had damaged you or, ugh, fuck."
Dean seems to be losing his ability to form sentences, and Crowley understands. If a helpful little minion walked in right now, he's not sure he'd even be able to tell them to fuck off. Would have to settle for a quick kill.
And that's neglectful.
"Love you, mine, always mine! God, baby, always wanting to touch – your smell -"
CRACK!
Crowley hears Dean swear (Sammy must've punched him – the kid has some fight left), then there's more sounds of clothes and leather and gasps.
"Dean," Sam rumbles and oh shit. If the sound of Dean's voice deep with arousal was a turn on, Sam's is a damned aphrodisiac. White liquid weeps from the tip of Crowley's dick, and he uses it to jack himself faster. Looks like baby brother is finally on board.
"Come on, Sammy, yeah. Just us, man," Dean promises breathlessly. Suddenly, they both groan and Crowley thinks home run.
It's nothing but a quick, violent fuck from then on, but Crowley still manages to come before either of them. He's completely spent, one leg sprawled bonelessly over the arm of the chair. Crowley's an old demon, has definitely been around the block more than a few times with more than a few partners – of both sexes – but this was one of his most powerful orgasms. And he did it all by himself.
Well, he amends, almost all by himself.
When he finally meets the Winchester brothers again, he doesn't let on that he knows right away. Restraint makes the reveal all the more delicious.
"That night you broke into my house- our first date - my valet hid a tracking device in your car. A magical coin that easily traps you bags of bones. It allows me to hear things."
He watches as realization dawns on their faces.
"And oh my - the things I've heard."