Warnings for: offscreen canon typical violence, some objectification/sexism/racism (in the form of "Busty Asian Beauties"), mention of blood drinking, and the power differentials between Crowley and Kevin.
The doors open easy, like they did yesterday and the day before and the day before. Crowley grins around the split lip Kevin gave him this morning. "Kev, I thought our recent domestic meant you were canceling our date."
"Shut up," he snaps, fingers trembling.
But he hands Crowley one of Dean's copies of Busty Asian Beauties. Crowley hums in the back of his throat, thumbing through the worn pages, and Kevin sits across from him to finish Gone With the Wind. Pre-prophet him would probably scoff, but after the tablet, it's about all he can deal with. Honestly, it's almost too much. But everything is almost too much, these days.
Crowley flips another page and groans. Kevin's fingers tighten on his book, but he doesn't look at Crowley and says nothing. "This one reminds me of your mother. Want a peek?" Crowley pitches his voice husky and low.
"I give you those things so you'll shut up for more than five minutes." Kevin is shaking. "I could leave."
"If you could leave, sweetheart, you would have," the page turns, again, loudly.
Despite that, Crowley remains silent, save for the occasional gasp or groan and his damn page-turning. Gone With the Wind absorbs Kevin, until he finally is still and his heartbeat calms.
"Still wearing the Winchesters' ball and chain, I see. Lovely accessory," says Crowley later, because he can't help himself.
Kevin places his book on the the table. When Crowley smirks, his mouth is barely swollen from Kevin's fist anymore. "Gotta say, they look better on you, Crowley."
Crowley's expression darkens, and if he weren't locked down, Kevin thinks there might be the crackle of power around them. "At least, little prophet, there's no question whether I'm a prisoner," he grits out, acidic, "Apart from your field trips, you're a bird in their gilded cage. A pet."
"I'm family," but he never sounds as sure as Dean had.
Crowley snorts. "You're too smart to swallow their propaganda. I'll wager they never even tried to find mommy dearest."
His answer is the twist of Kevin's mouth. In the quiet of the bunker, Crowley's laughter echoes. There are rooms upon rooms out there (some Kevin hasn't even explored) that don't have Crowley in them Kevin could occupy. But no one else is out there, either.
"They have got you, haven't they? Pretty little bird flew right into their cage, thinking he had escaped mine. And now here we are, Kev."
Kevin snatches the magazine out of Crowley's hands, and, unfortunately, the disgusting thing doesn't tear. "Except I could leave, and you're stuck while Abaddon's out there stealing your throne."
"You could leave," Crowley muses, dark eyes examining Kevin, "But you won't. Kev, your loyalty is misplaced."
"I have more for you to translate in the morning," says Kevin, sharp and pointed. He can't translate all of the tablet into cuneiform, but pieces of it he can. And that's where Crowley comes in.
Crowley rolls his eyes, but his hands finally—finally start shaking. "You know what I want."
"Yeah." Kevin extends his arm, to show off the scab where he drew blood yesterday. "You'll get it." Kevin isn't sure which is worse: drawing the blood or watching Crowley shoot up with it.
Kevin takes his book from the table. "Have fun all alone, Crowley."
"You too, sweetheart," and then, as Kevin walks out the door, "I'd accept a kiss, too. You've got quite a mouth on you, Kev."
Kevin slams the doors behind him. How long before that becomes a better option than draining himself dry?