Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. I am not making any profit out of writing this. This applies to all chapters.

Spoilers: set in season 7, somewhere. Sam never had any hallucinations when the wall in his mind broke down. Crowley and Castiel did work together, but Cas is alive and still an angel. Dick Roman and his buddies are still around.

Pairings: Crowley/Dean. Mentions of Cas/Dean. (Bottom!Dean all the way.)

Warnings: Slash (graphic sex scenes, dub-con). Alcohol, foul language and violence (also abuse). Not proof-read yet.

Summary: The King of Hell has everything. Everything but someone to share it with. Crowley only wants the best, so of course the only one suitable as his partner is the bright and pretty Righteous Man.

Welcome to Heartbreak

Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls

Part I: Prologue

Crowley has always enjoyed the finest things in life. If it isn't the best, if it isn't supreme, then it isn't worth any kind of work. He isn't the type to settle for second best or simple things; no, he rather works a little harder, a little longer, to get exactly what it is that he wants. This applies to anything and everything - clothing, drinks and food, all those material things that humans are so fond of, but he also puts a distinct level of competense on his subordinates and other beings that he surrounds himself with.

His dogs, for example, are a fine breed of Hellhounds. Big and muscular in ways that mortal animals are not, blood bubbling between their giant teeth and their short fur always glistening beautifully. Crowley can't see the beauty in other demons' dogs, but his own canines are utterly adorable killing machines. He should get some kind of prize, he thinks, a trophy for being such a capable dog breeder.

Of course, he doesn't need medals or trophies no more. He is the king of Hell nowadays, and the fear and respect that oozes through his subordinates' pores is a good enough testament of his greatness.

Crowley is also stubborn, but has always been labelled as fair. As his previous position as king of the crossroads, it was in the job description, and it's a trait that has followed him ever since he started dealing. He can no longer see the fun in getting his way without a little fight. The red tape isn't a hinder, it's a possibility. He is a fine, fine business man and it had been half the fun to find his way through the bureaucracy.

Nowadays, Crowley actually has the time to sit back and relax now and then.

Hell is remodelled and slowly rebuilt into something much more creative. It's improving, growing stronger and cleaner. Cleaner, because as stated earlier, Crowley likes the finest things in life, and he figures that his work space should reflect that as well. The demons are being held in tighter leashes - they are worse than his dogs: always running around, drooling and biting, ruining things. He doesn't mind, because dogs he can handle: demons are beasts, and he shall treat them as such.

King of Hell is currently sitting in his newest establishment - an old, isolated manor on Earth - and enjoying a thumb of scotch and a cigar. It's Cuban, a smelly thing that will certainly stick to the fabric of the plush sofa group. He doesn't mind the smoke, but he opens the wide windows with a wave of his hand, because he's certain that his guest probably won't find the sweet scent pleasurable.

The small flames of the lit candles wavers in the evening breeze and the fireplace crackles as more oxygen enters the room. The dim light and comfortable armchair would probably have made him sleepy, had he been human, but as it is, Crowley is wide awake and eagerly anticipating what is to come. The weather outside is appropriate - sun settling far, far away and the sky an orange pink - for what is to come, and he hopes that the romantic touch to the room will be noticed.

The sheepskin thrown in front of the fireplace took him days to find. The ones on this continent were too small, so he had been forced to travel quite a bit to find one this large and soft. Pillar candles are spread throughout the room in little groups, casting a lovely warm atmosphere that Crowley didn't think he would actually manage to create.

Of course, it is ruined that very moment by two of his private goons. They don't seem like much topside, but down below they are more than useful. He thinks that they need more practice, so they aren't the actual ones to bid this very business. Instead, they only stumble into the room in their pretty meatsuits, unused to concrete limbs, to inform him about a certain someone's presence.

A certain someone that is going to be Crowley's biggest pride.

The King of Hell needs a lover.

Someone to show off, to spoil and to be proud of. He can hear the very special being - a human - throwing a fit downstairs, obviously not aware of the position that Crowley is going to offer him. A position that will only fall to the very best: the prettiest, the brightest, the most wanted. A position of power and control, a queen of sorts, because 'consort' isn't a proper term for someone as high maintance as the piece of meat being dragged and pulled up the stairs this very minute.

Crowley waves the two newbies away, puts out his cigar in the marble ashtray, and waits as patiently as he can (because he has patience, the former king of crossroads, always waiting ten years for deals to come due).

The doors are practically swung open, three of his best demons dragging in a kicking and screaming Dean Winchester.

The Righteous Man himself, digging his heels into the hardwood floor and trashing much like a trapped rabbit, He looks good, if a little tired and angry, eyes wide and mouth twisted into a furious scowl. Nevertheless, this human is perfect for the roll. He is the best of the best, top notch and absolutely worth the fight. Crowley can already feel the pride that is going to overwhelm him once he shows his subordinates - his kingdom - their new queen. Dean Winchester, pretty as can be, Hell's most wanted and Alistair's prodigy.

What a catch, Crowley finds himself thinking. He can't help but raise his glass in a silent salut when Dean finally spots him, jaw going slack in surprise.

"You," he growls, but doesn't seem to be capable of forming a coherent sentence beyond that.

"Yes, me. Boys, leave us." Crowley gestures towards the door with his free hand, taking a sip of the auburn liquor without feeling the burn in his chest. A physical warmth spreads through him, warming his vessel in the outmost pleasurable way. "I've been looking for you for quite some time," he confesses when Dean is finally on his two feet and searching the room for weapons.

"Oh yeah? Why's that, you asshole?"

"I have a preposition to make. A deal, if you may." He can see Dean's nose crinkle slightly at the word, but the human is too busy weighing the fire poker in his hand to voice his dismay. Instead, Crowley continues: "It won't require your soul. Not Sam's. It doesn't require any souls, actually."

"Then what is it, fucker? C'mon, out with it. Don't have all day." Dean swings the fire poker at him, but Crowley snaps his fingers and the iron crumbles in the air before it can collide with his head. "I don't wanna make any deals with you. Or anyone else."

"Hm, yes, I kind of figured," Crowley admits slowly and takes another sip. He makes a vague gesture to the small table where he keeps his alcohol, but Dean only glares at him. "See, as King of Hell, I'm given all sorts of privileges and powers, but I guess you already understand that." Crowley certainly hopes so, but he knows that the boy is a little slow. "And you might have figured out that I want my property to be of the highest quality."

"I kinda figured when you threw that hissy fit about your tailor," Dean mutters and tries to open the doors. They don't even budge, and the Winchester gives up after a few more tries. He turns back to Crowley, green eyes turning a warm moss-colour in the light of the fire.

"I have everything now," he carries on when Dean stares at him. "Everything but one little thing."

"A soul?"

Crowley doesn't really appreciate being mocked, but he lets it slide for now. "No, you little moron. Someone to share it with. My everything."

Dean's eyes widens comically and he leans against the doors with a thump. "Are you serious? 'Cause if you are, I don't understand what I'm doin' here. I'm sure as hell not gonna help you find some kind of demon-wife just 'cause you're feelin' a little lonely. Dude."

"I'm very serious, but I agree that asking you for help in finding a bride would be ridiculous. Your taste in women and men is not what I have in mind." Crowley schools his facial expressions, waiting for Dean to catch on. Of course, that doesn't happen, and he's forced to add: "No, Dean, I do not need your help to find myself a partner. I already have someone in mind."

"Good for you. Don't bother sending me any wedding invitations 'cause I'm not gonna show up."

"Oh, Lord, it's like talking to a brick wall. A stupid brick wall."

Crowley gets up, making his way to the doors. Dean unconsciously presses his back further into the white-painted wood in a pathetic attempt to escape. Standing as close as possible, Crowley looks straight into green, weary eyes and hopes that his own aren't black. Crowley is a few centimetres shorter, barely an inch, but he's broader and his vessel is actually rather well-kept. Not athletic, perhaps, but far from the shame shape as Bobby Singer.

"You don't seem to mind the angel being this close," Crowley murmurs, their hot breaths mingling in the air between them. "He might be as bright and fair as you are, Dean, but we both know you crave something darker."

Dean swallows, his throat working awkwardly under Crowley's gaze. They both know that it's true - even Castiel, the fluffy little angel, must confess to this. This attraction that Dean has to anything dark and sullied (like Sam, but no one dares to say such a thing, not even the King of Hell). Maybe the need Dean has for dirty and naughty things came after his time with Alistair, but Crowley knows that the potential has always been there, lurking.

Even though his soul is the brightest, the cleanest, Dean's mind is a nasty place to be.

It makes him the perfect candidate for the place as Queen of Hell - because, really, Dean is pretty enough for the title. Crowley finds himself smirking, his upper lip curling above his row of teeth a little manically. He's been waiting for this a long time now, ever since he decided to hand over that God-awful gun. It has been such a load of trouble to find the Winchester boys that he had been almost confused this morning, when rumours about them being just a few states over were truthful.

"Back off," Dean whispers, but he doesn't even try to fight.

Crowley takes it as the invitation it is, leaning in and capturing those sinuous lips with his teeth. He bites, a little too hard perhaps, and the kiss is messy when blood runs freely between their mouths. Warm and wet, tongues daring to sneak out once Crowley stops nibbling. It's a good kiss, spit and blood dribbling down their chins and sticking to their teeth. It seems that Dean understands, at least in the back of his mind, because he pulls back after less than a minute.

He looks to the side, his sharp profile just as handsome as from the front. Crowley steps back, wondering what the human is thinking right now. Probably screaming in that head of his, surely not noticing the effort Crowley put into this room. The sheepskin on the floor, the soft sofa and all the pillar candles; unnoticed and forgotten, because humans are still stupid and young.

"Think about it for me," Crowley murmurs, his lips moving against the shell of Dean's ear, smearing blood over the pale skin. He can't help the breathy chuckle that escapes him, but seeing that shade of red on the Righteous Man is even more glorious than Alistair described. "You can still hunt, with your brother. You want Roman gone, I want Roman gone."

"Then what is it you want?" Dean asks, voice rough and tired, the way Dean seems to be these days.

"To put it in crude ways that you'll understand: I want your ass. In my bed, sometimes by my side. You do make a lovely company on your good days." Crowley must admit to find Dean's objection to anything supernatural amusing, with his insults and holier-than-thou attitude, as long as it isn't turned on him.

"Such a romantic, Crowley," Dean rasps. Crowley barely manages to avoid rolling his eyes, because, yes, he is quite the romantic. Only, the Winchester boy would probably not know romance if it hit him in the arse. "But I don't think thinkin' about it will change my answer."

"Which is...?"

"No. Fuck no, actually. You got a stroke or something? 'Cause last time I checked you were the God damn demon that rules hell." Dean finally begins to struggle, pushing against the unyielding demon. Crowley does roll his eyes this time, stepping back and unlocking the doors with a snap of his fingers.

"Consider it, Winchester," he advices. "You never know when you'll need an ally from below. I can prove to be quite useful, and belonging to me would give you exclusive privileges that one of your kind can only dream of. I'll make sure to inform Sam about this - he might be able to see reason."

"You touch my brother and you're dead. Got it? I'll fuckin' kill you with my bare hands," Dean promises. "Keep quiet about this."

Crowley shrugs, the suit jacket falling perfectly over his shoulders. This is actually going a lot better than he expected it to, because Dean has actually been listening to what he had to say. That alone is a step in the right direction, so he decides to push a little further: "I won't tell Sam, if..."

Dean is silent for a while, thinking of a proper reply to the deal Crowley is offering. Finally, he says, "I'll think about it, if you don't tell Sam. You even think of mentioning it near my brother and the deal's off."

"You're getting better at this deal-making," Crowley says with a smirk. He moves over to the small table, pouring himself another glass of scotch. He then points to the doors with the bottle. "You're free to go. One of the morons downstairs will show you the way back to Sammy."

The King of Hell watches the Righteous Man walk down the hall with angry strides, doors swinging, and he feels victorious.

To Be Continued

A/N: Please let me know what you thought and if you would like to see more of this!