"A bit slower?"
"I will break your hand."
"Ah, but you said that earlier too." Crowley grins a little, but of course Sam is pointedly looking the other way, and he seems rather uncomfortable with this new experience. Poor Moose. He has some very firm thighs to go with those wonderfully broad shoulders. And obviously he doesn't mind being touched in quite this way…
Sam grabs Crowley's wrist before it gets any closer to its goal and forces his hand away. "I said stop it!" he snarls, "Or I really will break your face!"
Crowley sighs dismally and tugs free. "My apologies, love. I simply meant—"
"Don't call me that."
"Well, what am I allowed to call you?"
"You can just say my name like every other normal person," Sam suggests acidly, returning his attention to his book. Crowley pulls a face and leans back in a bit of a huff, sliding down in his seat and shoving his hands in his pockets. Damn. This is going to be more boring than anticipated. Dean has pretty much grounded him for a week, Castiel is cavorting with his human, and Sam is doing even more reading. And he isn't allowed to watch any more soap operas. At this rate he'll never finish Days Of Our Lives.
"Where's the booze when you need it?" he grumbles under his breath, glowering at the TV.
A metallic flash arcing through the air, landing in his lap, making him jump; keys? He glances at Sam sharply, who just scowls. "Bourbon," the Winchester orders, "And the good stuff, not Dean's crap."
A slow smile unfurls. "How much? The whole bottle? Shall I put on a maid uniform as well? OW!" He jumps in his seat, hand flying to the pain in his arm, putting on a betrayed stare, and almost speaks—Sam twirls his extra pen between his fingers threateningly, taking aim—
"Alright, alright! I'll get your bloody bourbon!" Crowley jumps to his feet and scurries out of the room to the liquor cabinet. Good lord, you'd think a top-heavy fountain pen would be hard to aim precisely; but the little bruise on his shoulder from the first missile is yet another testament to Sam's many talents. Hmm, what other applications can good aim be applied to…? Ah, better not dwell on it. Even if it is a tempting subject.
Why is he so mean? It's awfully unfair. Crowley scowls a little to himself as he unlocks the cabinet, then sighs and decides to let it go for now. Perhaps later, when they're both pleasantly stoned and it's clearer that Dean and Castiel have most probably gotten a room at some seedy motel. It's been far too long, surely Sam should be more willing to be adventurous, and even if he's not feeling particularly frisky there are still many things they could try; many, many things. But no. Instead of pouring a couple glasses he just plops a few ice cubes in each and carries them, with the bottle of alcohol, back to Sam's little fort of knowledge. This time instead of flopping in the chair next to him, Crowley circles around and pulls up a seat on the opposite side of the table before putting down the glasses and pouring a generous amount for both of them.
"Cheers," he comments genially, holding up his drink.
Sam glares and snatches his own, draining half of it in one go. So. Still angry. Not his fault. Well, it is, but not really. Eh, he'll get over it. Crowley tugs a book free from a pile and flips through it idly, sipping his bourbon and waiting. He'll be waiting a long time. But that's alright. He's patient.
Ticktock. Ticktock. Ticktock. Three hours pass. Ticktock. Dean and Castiel aren't coming home tonight it seems. Ticktock. And Sam is running out of material to look through. Ticktock. Tick… tock.
Crowley watches through hooded eyes as Sam pours his fifth glass. He is not taking this well. But there is little point in trying to stop him. Tick tock indeed.
The human suddenly snarls at his book, slams it shut, shoves it aside, and digs his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes tight. Time to make his move—no, not quite. Wait just a little bit more. Not long at all. A tiny smile plays across the demon's lips.
Sam's eyes snap open and he scowls. "What're you looking at?" he grumps, reaching for a different volume (his hair is particularly majestic when floofed up like that); then he pauses, staring at the title of the manuscript, fingertips barely touching it.
"Nothing," Crowley replies sweetly, swirling his drink. "You've been at it a long time."
Anger and surprise melt just a wee bit, showing an exhaustion that is actually a little unnerving—but he quickly pulls himself together and stands abruptly, scooping up his notes. "I'll finish these later," he mumbles to himself; his eyes start to unfocus, but he snaps to attention again and snatches up his phone, checking for new messages. Crowley sighs to himself and swallows the last of the bourbon. He really is worried then. But perhaps he can help him relax… you don't spend a few centuries on Earth without picking up a few tips here and there. Mm, but of course Sammy would break his arm if he tried anything.
Would he, though?
Sam drops his phone on the table again and wanders off, more or less in the direction of his own room. Crowley pushes back his chair and stands quite casually, stretching a bit before taking his sweet time clearing up the alcohol, food crumbs from Sam's delayed repast, and loose bits of ripped and crumpled paper. When all is clean, he takes off his jacket and drapes it over the back of the couch, then meanders over to Sam's room.
The human is at his desk, back to the open door, leaning his head in his hand and tapping his pencil. Crowley pauses, and leans against the lintel, observing. He really is quite the looker, even from the back. His neck and shoulders appear quite tense, and there is an odd smell in the air, not even a smell, more a pulsation of feeling—ah, yes, it's been a while since he smelled such a strong, angry frustration. It's not quite sexual, but it would just need a little nudge…
He pads over as quietly as he can (which is very quiet indeed) and lays his fingertips on Sam's shoulders, grinning as he immediately stiffens further. "Oh, loosen up, Moose. It's just me." Start slowly, moving in little circles, and as the tension gradually eases and Sam's hackles go down Crowley moves just a titch closer and slides his hands fully over those extraordinary shoulders. They really are quite wide, aren't they? Doesn't matter. They're still taut, as is his neck; Crowley digs his thumbs into the tightest places and, less slowly, Sam actually starts to relax. Yes, good. Get him nice and comfortable, and then… then what? Seduce him? How? Oh dear. He hadn't really planned that out. Ah well, for now he'll just gain his trust. And… well, this is alright.
No it's not. Bullocks.
Standing right behind him is both satisfactory and frustrating. Satisfying in that he gets to touch him—blimey that bourbon was strong—frustrating in that the scent-that's-not-a-scent is much stronger up close and it's screwing up his own system. Plaid flannel is rather thick actually, so most of the nuances of massage don't quite go through… so he tugs a bit at the side of Sam's collar and, wonder of wonders, Sam actually raises his hands, very hesitantly, and undoes his top buttons. He still has a t-shirt underneath, but this—this is progress. Crowley grins and tugs again, and more buttons are loosened, and the collar is opened wider until the shirt is pulled completely off Sam's shoulders and now it's just a layer of grey cotton fabric between them.
Well then. Perhaps he shouldn't push it, but he's so tempted. So, so tempted. Very carefully, he starts to move his attentions down a bit, pretending to be focusing on the back muscles, and the plaid just slides off. So close, so close.
"You can stop now," Sam mumbles, and his voice is actually trembling just the tiniest bit.
Crowley grins, safe in that he's behind Sam and thus invisible. Behind him. And if he manages to remove this operation to the bed, he'll be on top of him. Oh lord it's almost too perfect. "What? And watch all our hard work unravel? You need to slow down a bit, Moose."
"I am slowed down."
"Still too fast though, love."
"Don't CALL me that!"
Sam tries to lunge to his feet, but Crowley tightens his grip and slams him back down again, leaning over his shoulder to growl, "If you don't stop trying to kill me, I'll stop helping you and your brother and Mr. Feather, and you lot," his hands dig in further, eliciting a tiny hiss from Sam, "Can die and rot and disappear forever. I honestly couldn't care less anymore."
Amazingly, the world seems to pause for a moment. The anger fades from Sam, and, slowly, oh so slowly, he slumps in his chair, staring at his knees. He looks very… small, actually. And sad.
An increasingly familiar feeling pricks at Crowley; guilt? How odd. He eases off, leaning back again and loosening his grasp, until he's just standing again with his hands laying on Sam's shoulders. Well. All his hard work is ruined. Best to retreat now then. He starts to step back—
And Sam's hand shoots up and grabs his, keeping it clamped down. Crowley's mouth opens out of surprise, but he quickly bites back any comment and continues to stand, awkwardly now. Sam doesn't move again. It feels like hours before the smell-that's-not-a-smell begins to thicken again. Now it's wobbling, unsure, but still potent. A smirk begins on Crowley's face; so all is not lost. Careful now. Carefully, he bends down again so he's cheek to cheek with Sam; carefully, he presses his lips to Sam's neck. A shudder, an immediate tensing, but he doesn't lift his head, trying not to grin. Mmph, the faintest linger of dandruff shampoo clashes with the odor of sweat and fear. But fear is a delicious smell, with sweat a close second. What does he taste like? A quick lick against his jaw reveals that he does, indeed, taste like normal human; but there's that tang, the irresistible presence of 'demon'. It doesn't matter what trials and tribulations and deaths he goes through, he will always carry a taint; and while that is a terrible burden, it also makes him very, very interesting…
"Stop it."
"Hmm?" It takes him a moment to come out of his mini-trance and realize that Sam is shaking very badly, and the fear is building behind his eyes. "Oh, come now. I'm not going to hurt you." The hand on the opposite shoulder slides over, practically cradling Sam's head, and Crowley buries his face further in the crook of the human's neck. Mmm he tastes good. "Don't be afraid."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"If you don't stop I'll—I'll—"
"Break my face? Put me in IC? You'd miss me, Moose, admit it."
"Shut up." The shaking has intensified, and even his voice is trembling harder. A quick glance up; oh dear. He's truly terrified. But you have to learn some time or another. Why not now, while they're alone and nobody cares? Crowley lets his hands travel down, sliding slowly over the shoulders, down the biceps—what lovely muscles you have, darling—to tighten on the elbows, pushing them closer and trapping his arms.
"Stop it," Sam mumbles again, quieter, duller; he's given up already then? Or perhaps he pushed a bit far? Either way is vexing. Crowley scowls and lifts his face, instead pressing his cheek against Sam's. Where's that delicious fear? It disappeared so quickly, and now the only tangible emotion is a dull kind of sadness. Damn. And there goes the guilt again, cutting a little deeper this time; it's annoying, and it makes him angry, because damn it he just wants to fuck something and Sam is the first choice around here so why won't he just get over it and take off his clothes so they can go to bed and in the morning that lovely ass will belong to him, to Crowley, forever and ever—is that too much to ask? Just one little fuck. That's all he wants, just one little vicious glorious fuck.
He straightens abruptly, comes around in front, and sits on Sam's lap as decisively as he can, straddling him. The numbness disappears in a flash, and Sam snarls, starting to stand up—Crowley takes the opening and kisses him quite firmly.
Everything freezes.
It feels like an eternity—it must have been only a minute or two though. Sam stops shuddering. His hands, braced on his attacker's diaphragm in preparation of shoving him off as hard as possible, ease off the pressure. How strange. He doesn't taste like alcohol at all. More like morning breath and organic turkey sandwiches. And he isn't pushing or standing, so he must be a little bit alright with this. The scent of fear returns, but electric with some other emotion; ah yes, it's fear of a new experience, mixed with excited dread. A veritable bouquet. He must be feeling particularly frustra—"Ow!"
"S-sorry," Sam gasps, immediately letting go, "Sorry, I, I just, please get off of—mmph!"
"Do it again," Crowley murmurs, when he backs off a bit to let Sam breathe. "Harder."
"But—but—"
"Pretty please?"
"…o-okay…"
So Sam puts his arms around him again and the next time their mouths touch it's like it's instinct, his grip tightening so suddenly, nails digging through fabric. It's wonderful. He is very warm, and smells nice, and is actually panting a little, and the surprise on his face is almost swamped by an animalistic hunger that makes Crowley simultaneously thrilled and uneasy. Thrilled because yes, yes, this is good, this is a good way to start; uneasy because how in the world is he going to stop this juggernaut before it tears him apart? Well, at the moment being torn actually sounds fun, when it's at the hands of—ow ow ow OW that was vicious. Been a while since someone almost bit through his lip. That small bolt of pain just makes him even more impatient. When will they get to the Naked Under The Covers stage? It better be soon.
Sam yanks the top buttons open on Crowley's shirt. The demon responds by running his hands up under the human's shirt and pulling it off him. More buttons fumbled open; more kisses that seem to be getting more and more desperate. Why? They have all the time in the world. Or maybe not; a quick, distracted glance at the clock shows that it's midnight already, and Dean and Castiel should be back sooner rather than later. Oh, god, yes, that's good.
"Yeek!" he squeaks, almost flailing a bit as Sam suddenly stands, still holding him up, and crosses to his bed, slamming the demon down rather harder than necessary and crawling up on top of him; ohhhh no, you aren't the dominant one here. Crowley digs his fingers in Sam's hair, wrenching him down for another kiss, and while he's off balance rolls over on top. Ha! Teach you to—"Oi! What're you—"
"Shut up."
"Never!" And he digs his teeth into Sam's neck, not quite drawing blood, but so very close. The strangest sound emerges from the other's throat; part gasp of pain, part angry growl, and part impatient moan. It's an interesting sound, new and different and, yes, exciting in its own way. It gives him a burst of strength, settling once and for all that he's the one in charge here, grinning down at a face still caught between welcoming anticipation and righteous anger, and those scratches and scrapes on his back are going to take a while to fade, but the sharp stings feel so gooood in the heat of the moment, and where is his belt? Gone, apparently, except—a ferocious yank and he finds that his belt is now cinched tight around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides, and he laughs, mostly out of surprise.
"Ha! Never knew you were into bondage," he taunts, and accidentally yelps when Sam pushes him off to the side, rolling him on his back. Oh dear. Now the fight is getting serious. That's alright, he likes it rough.
"Not bondage," Sam retorts, pushing Crowley's knees further apart. There's a gleam in his eyes that isn't quite right… He grins and suddenly Crowley feels extremely uneasy. "Dominance."
"Well, you'd better try harder then, shouldn't you, love?" Crowley shoots back, to hide the doubts, and with a faint grunt he sits up, arms still pinned, legs wrapped around Sam's waist for balance, and shrugs the belt up so it's barely clinging to his shoulders; and when Sam automatically reaches to pull it down, scowling like thunder, he lunges and traps both of Sam's arms under his left while his right hand grabs the human's chin and drags him down, almost a kiss, for which Sam automatically relaxes, but yanks further and bites his ear, hard. The surprised moan/gasp is so worth the backhanded slap, which isn't nearly as hard as it could've been, really more of a child's pat compared with the blows he's is capable of. But before Crowley overbalances and falls on his back again Sam suddenly wraps his arms around him and hugs him so tight he can't breathe. He wants to laugh, but his lungs are almost flattened and Sam is starting to shake again.
"I didn't mean that," the human hiccups. "I didn't mean that, I swear."
"I know you didn't, love." It's a little awkward, to be stopping like this so suddenly (and they'd barely begun), but he manages to return the embrace and waits for the shaking to subside. "It's alright. I like it rough."
Sam scoffs into his shoulder and he grins. "I'm… sorry."
"It's alright," he repeats, and instantly wants to crawl away and hide because it's unthinkable that his voice could get that soft without his meaning to. But there now, he seems to be steadying. "Would you like to continue?"
"…Yeah."
This time they start slower. It's even more awkward than before, because Sam doesn't seem to know what to do. He doesn't take direction very well, although he has a knack for finding just the right spot to bite or scratch, at just the right time, and where and when to be gentle (not too gentle; they aren't making love here). Crowley tries to be patient and let Sam build up at his own pace, but it's been about an hour now since he first intruded and he's still not satisfied. Perhaps—"Ah!"
"Um… again?"
"Yes. Yes, yes, again." There we go, there's the spark that ignites the flame; with that permission Sam's next kiss is rough and hard and it's wonderful being able to speed up without worrying about frightened bedmates cringing at the wrong moments, and now that he's warmed up again, it's time to—
The minute Crowley begins to push, begins to take his rightful place as ruler, Sam grabs his wrists, too tight, pinning him, and growls, "No. My bed, my rules."
"Now, now, no need to get angry," the other retorts lazily, and promptly jams his knee in Sam's side. He doesn't let go, but he does overbalance, allowing Crowley to get on top and start shoving those moose-y legs apart—damn! Slippery bastard, Sam wriggles out from under him and shoves him facedown into the pillow, twisting his arm up behind him—ow, christ that hurts—and dives for one last kiss on the mouth before moving his attentions