A/N: So this is what I've spent my day doing, outside of boiling in the blistering British sunshine, that is. Just a quick explanation; this is set in an AU where Crowley is human, the Winchesters and Crowley went to the same school and, for some reason, they all share an apartment. Also, the stuff in italics are flashbacks.

Thanks for reading, I hope you like it and please let me know what you think! :3

Dean Winchester rues the day he made a deal with a high school kid named Crowley.

Well, not really. That deal led to Sammy being the happiest he's ever been but he feels like he should rue the day on principal alone; kind of a big brother's duty, right?

The deal had been fairly extortionate. For ten dollars a week, Crowley would be Sam's friend and make sure nobody fucked with him. It had been made three years ago, back when Sam was fifteen and Crowley was eighteen. Dean had chosen Crowley in particular because he'd heard things about the Brit, namely that almost everyone at his little brother's high school was terrified of him.

Some even called him the King of Hell, reflecting just how much power he had over the school.

So Dean had made the deal, ten dollars a week for Sammy's guaranteed safety, and had felt that the money was worth it when his brother came home one day talking about how awesome it was to finally have a friend.

It only started to worry Dean a few weeks later, when Crowley stopped asking for payments.

Sure, he was glad to be keeping his money and getting his brother a friend but nothing with Crowley is ever that straight forward, not even now. And, naturally, Dean had been right; Crowley, the slimy bastard that he is, was trying to get into his baby brother's pants.

Not that Sam really seemed to mind.

Scowling that thought away, Dean turns his attention to the now, focussing his sights on the clock hanging above the TV. He hates this, knowing that his brother is out with Crowley in some seedy bar and won't be home until at least half an hour after the curfew Dean had set when they moved into their very own apartment. Dean thinks Crowley brings Sammy home late on purpose, just to piss him off. He's right.

He still can't believe that the three of them are housemates. There's nothing at all pleasurable for Dean about living in an enclosed space with Crowley; the fucker eats all of his food, talks through any film or program that Dean might be watching and is never quiet when he's going at it with sweet little Sammy.

And then there's the PDA. Only in the apartment, of course, and only to piss Dean off. Crowley would never be overly-affectionate in public but in these four walls he goes out of his way to make sure Sam is always planted firmly in his lap, that they make-out at every possible interval.

Dean would brand it wholly awful if it didn't make Sammy so goddamn happy.

That's precisely the reason that he didn't throw Crowley out last year when he walked in on a rather distressing scene. He'd just bit his tongue and let them get on with it. Just like he does now, deciding not to ruin their date by phoning Sammy to make sure he's okay.

There are many not-too-nice-things Dean could say about Crowley, but he knows the guy would never let anything bad happen to his baby brother. He's known that since he found out the two were an 'item'.

000

Dean carefully pulls the door shut behind him, knowing that Sam will most likely be asleep by now or, if not, studying his socks off. Crowley's probably asleep too, but waking him up would be a bonus in Dean's eyes.

He's been working late at the garage, desperate to finally finish work on that stunning classic car that most definitely deserves to be roadworthy. Thus it is half eleven at night and he's too tired to notice Crowley's open bedroom door, signalling that the Brit is not in there.

Dean carries on his way through the surprisingly clean apartment (Crowley has a thing for cleaning, who knew?) to the room he shares with Sammy. Smiling sleepily, he goes to open the door.

But then he stops.

There are… sounds coming from within. Sounds that he's never heard his brother make before despite him being a full seventeen years of age. He grins to himself, assuming that his brother's gotten lucky with some girl, about time too, and turns to traipse over to the couch, more than willing to let his brother have a night of fun. That kid studies way too damn hard.

But then, he hears a chuckle. A masculine chuckle that is oh-so-recognisable as not Sam's and oh-so-recognisable as coming from Crowley's lips. Dean thinks he throws up a little bit in his mouth.

And then he's furious. Not because Crowley's a guy, he really couldn't give a shit about his brother's sexuality, but because it's Crowley full stop. Crowley who has slightly violent tendencies, is possessive as fuck over anything he lays claim to and is a whole three years older than Sammy.

Of course Dean had seen this coming, he'd just chosen to ignore it; be blissfully ignorant to all of the warning signs. There was the way Crowley ordered for Sam whenever they ate out, the way the two were practically joined at the hip, how Sam had long since stopped protesting Crowley calling him 'Moose', instead blushing and grinning like an idiot at the nickname. Then there was the way they looked at each other when they thought nobody was looking; definite eye-fucking going on there.

Unsure of what to do, Dean's mind goes into a mild panic; Crowley's a bastard and he doesn't want him to be his brother's first fuck.

Grunting in God only knows what emotion, he clicks the bedroom door open, trying to be quiet so that he can get stock of the situation before going in, all guns blazing. Figuratively as well as metaphorically; Dean has a handgun under the kitchen sink and won't hesitate to use it if Crowley forced his baby brother into this.

The sight that he is met with is all together totally different from what he had expected.

Thankfully, there's a blanket covering both parties' lower halves and protecting Dean from needing a lifetime of therapy. Sammy's cuddled into Crowley's side; already out for the count and clinging to the older man like a child with a teddy. In sleep Sammy looks so innocent and it makes Dean's face soften, the easy smile on his brother's face making him feel like a good big brother because it's his job to make sure that Sam is happy.

For Crowley's part, he's still awake but only just. He's sat, leaning against the headboard of the too-small bed, a satisfied look painted firmly onto his face and one arm draped loosely over Sam's body, his eyes glued to the boy's face and seemingly finding pleasure on the expression he finds there.

Shit, Dean thinks, they're actually in love.

"Yours." Sam mutters in his sleep, snuggling closer to the older man. "Yours."

Crowley chuckles warmly, carding a hand through Sammy's hair; "Mine."

000

The bar is heaving, packed with so many people that it's practically making it hard to move. That's just how Crowley likes it though; the more people there are the more people he can show off his boyfriend to.

The two are sat on stools at the bar, Crowley nursing some kind of scotch and Sam sipping at his beer. Every so often someone will make eyes at Sam and in response Crowley, without warning, jams his tongue down the younger man's throat, grips his hair, lets his hands wander all over the boy. Then he glares at whoever dare even think about taking what is his.

It's a dark place but they can still see each other, so that's okay, but it also affords them some privacy.

"You need a haircut, Moose." Crowley smirks, playing with a strand of aforementioned hair with his fingers, running it over them like it's silk. "Starting to look girly."

"I thought you liked my hair." Sam frowns and Crowley would apologise apart from he's Crowley and this is Moose, so he doesn't. Then a wicked gleam shines in Sam's eyes. "You liked pulling on it enough last night."

"Touché." He laughs, letting the strand fall and clamping both hands around his glass. He likes that they can be like this; that Sam has loosened up a lot since getting with him. Glancing around he sees a guy slightly older than him but, in his opinion, far less good-looking, making eyes at what is his. Again. "You're mine."

And then he's at it, both hands on Sam's hips so that he can pull him closer without making him fall off his stool. His lips are clamped on the younger boy's, showing nothing but dominance with a dash of love; he saves his truly loving kisses for the privacy of their own bedroom, where nobody can see his soft side.

Satisfied that he's shown the bar yet again that Sam is taken, claimed, whatever, he pulls away, winking at his boyfriend as he does so. He adores the way Sam looks after a good kiss; all star-struck and like he can't quite believe his luck.

It's really fucking adorable, Crowley thinks.

"Yours."

"Mine." Crowley looks around, locates the restroom and smiles. "Just going to take a piss."

"Charming."

Rolling his eyes, Crowley hops down from the stool and makes his way over to the restrooms, sparing a moment to glance back at his boy, then down at his watch. They should leave soon if they want to be home early enough to appease Dean, meaning that Crowley probably won't decide to vacate the bar for another thirty minutes at least; he can't stand the older Winchester brother, but he'll tolerate living with him if it means twenty-four-hour access to his Sam.

He pushes his way through the hordes of people, wondering if maybe he's a little bit too possessive, and finally reaches his destination. There's a queue and he hates that, just wanting to get back to his boyfriend before someone can get their grubby little hands on him.

Ten minutes later he's shouldering through the people once more, determined to get back to Sam before another minute can pass. Of course he knows that the eighteen-year-old is capable of looking after himself but still. They both prefer it when Crowley is the one doing the looking after and, right now, Crowley's got a bad feeling building in the pit of his stomach.

Why? Because Sam's stool is empty.

Moose is gone. Missing. Vanished. And, for all his toughness and devil-may-care attitude, Crowley is worried.

"Bollocks."

And with that Crowley is storming through the place, eyes scanning every face in search of Sam's. Most people seem to be able to sense he's pissed and are sensible enough to get out of his way, those who don't get shoved away, often winding up on the floor. No one keeps Crowley away from what is his.

Cursing himself (and everyone else), Crowley continues his search, just hoping that Sam's gone to get a drink or something innocent like that, that he's not hurt or lost or showing interest in someone who isn't Crowley. Not that he would, the Brit insists in his mind, clinging to the idea for dear life.

Soon realising that Sam, his Sam, is no longer in the building, Crowley sprints outside, not caring that he knocks a fair few people down in the process.

The night air is cold against his skin, biting at it like wolves but he barely notices it. The only thing he notices is the sound of a scuffle coming from a nearby alley. Deciding that it's his best lead, Crowley follows the sound and stares coldly at what he sees.

Sam is clearly out of it, drugged Crowley thinks, but is still strong enough to at least try to push the guy from the bar away. Despite his best efforts though, the man already has Sam's trousers around his ankles and is grinning lecherously, paying no heed to Sammy's desperate whimpers of distress. Crowley notices that Sam's got a bloody lip, that there's a bruise forming around his eye and how hopeless said eye looks.

The sight makes Crowley's blood boil.

"What the bloody fucking hell are you doing?" Crowley barks, his voice overflowing with fury.

The man drops Sam, the boy's body falling to the floor with a loud thud, and turns to look at Crowley with fear in his eyes. Coward.

"He yours?" He grunts, as though he wasn't just about to rape Sam. Sam who is currently drugged and frightened and making Crowley's black heart break at the sight of him. "He's pretty."

Crowley runs at the man, planting his hands on his shoulders and ramming him back into the wall of the alley, winding the attacker and making him gasp. The Brit's fists come down quick, fast and strong, not stopping when he hears his opponent's nose click nor when he thinks that the guy can't take anymore.

This man hurt Moose. He deserves to die.

"C-crowley." A broken, stuttered voice calls out. If the addressed hadn't tagged high importance to that voice he wouldn't have heard it but he did, so he turns to look at has battered boyfriend, pausing his punches. "He-help."

Immediately his hands are off of the lowlife that dared to hurt his boyfriend, letting the man run off, and is on his knees next to Sam, helping the boy into a sitting position and carding his hands through his hair. He savours the feeling of Sam in his arms, reminding himself that he wasn't too late and that Sammy is okay, if a little bit traumatised.

Judging by the look in the younger boy's eyes, it's more than a little bit. But Crowley silences that thought and presses a kiss to his boyfriend's forehead, a comforting gesture.

"It's alright, Pet." He murmurs, his tone soft and gentle despite his gravelly voice. "I've got you, Darling."

"It's Moose." Sam slurs, making Crowley quirk an eyebrow and smile fondly down at his boy. "Y'only c-call me nice things when some'ing's wrong."

Crowley chuckles and tightens his grip, allowing the cuddle to happen because Sam needs it. Dammit, they both need it right now. Not that Crowley would ever admit needing a hug to anyone, not even to Moose.

He understands what Sam is saying though; 'Moose' is a normality, something that occurs every day and is comforting in spite of itself. Pet names, no matter how much Sam might like them, are only reserved for occasions of either severe joy, severe lust or, as in this case, severe worry.

"Okay, Moose, okay. Let's get you home."

000

Three months ago, Crowley had made a deal with Dean Winchester; ten dollars a week for befriending and protecting his younger brother.

Two months ago, Crowley had stopped requesting payment. Why? Because he likes Sam and knows that if Sam found out about him being paid to hang around with the younger Winchester, then it would most likely cost him dearly. Namely, it would cost him Sam.

Sam who should be here right now.

Every day after school Crowley has taken to walking home with Sam, or Moose as he calls him, and Sam is never late. Always on time or at their meeting spot before Crowley is. But not today.

Today Moose is twenty minutes late. And Crowley's had enough of waiting.

Making a decision, Crowley cusses under his breath at nothing in particular, and strides back into the school, not sure whether to be annoyed, worried or angry. He thinks he's all three but, in reality, it's mainly just worry, the excess worry disguising itself as the other two emotions in order to maintain a sense of normality. It just wouldn't do for Crowley to let himself become too soft on the kid.

A trio of sophomores amble past him, sickening smirks plastered to their faces. They don't look like the sort to voluntarily stay late for studying purposes. Scanning them, Crowley picks up on the faint trace of blood on the largest boy's knuckles.

He immediately starts running in the direction the boys have come from; the sports field.

And before he knows it, he's faced with a miserable heap of teenager slumped in the grass, bloody and beaten and close to unconsciousness.

"Sam!" He calls, loathing himself for sounding so desperate, and crouches next to the boy. "Bloody hell, they did a number on you, didn't they?" Sam tries to chuckle but ends up coughing, a tiny dribble of blood sliding out of his lips. Crowley's eyes widen, thinking of calling Dean or an ambulance. "Bastards."

"Crowley?"

"Yeah, I'm here, Pet." The addressed replies, carefully digging his hands under Sam's arms and pulling him into a sitting position, allowing the boy to lean against him for support. The pet name just slipped out but the affection behind it was well meant. Not that either would admit it. "I'm here."

The words are oddly comforting. Perhaps more so than they should be, Sam thinks. Apart from that pet name. Yeah, it makes him feel special and all that shit, but it also makes him wonder just how bad he is right now; Crowley never has been one for unneeded affection.

A throb of pain spikes out from his ribs, he thinks one or two might be cracked, and he hisses in agony, his back arching against Crowley. In response, the older boy runs a hand through his hair.

Again, oddly comforting. Everything about Crowley kind of is to Sam right now.

"Shush, Sweetheart, it's alright." Crowley murmurs, doing his best to be reassuring. He knows what he feels towards the youngest Winchester is anything but platonic and he thinks that showing it now might help the situation. "You're going to be just fine, Darling."

"How bad is it?"

Crowley blinks at the steeled question, not quite sure how to say that he's one step away from dialling 911. He winces at the faint look of fear welling in Sam's eyes and wants nothing more than to be able to take that away from him although he doesn't know how to. He has a pretty good idea, though.

One more look at those beautifully innocent yet somehow humanly flawed eyes is enough to make Crowley decide to carry out his idea. One that he's had since the day he me the tall, toned Winchester boy.

He kisses him.

Softly, of course, so as not to cause any further damage. His lips all but ghosting over Sam's and pushing it no further for several reasons. The first being that Sammy is hurt and that's the only real reason needed here.

"That bad, huh?" Sam smirks through the pain, wanting nothing more than to have another kiss; it made everything feel alright, like it was just meant to be. It had felt perfect. "You're not calling me 'Moose'."

Crowley leans in again, letting the kiss linger longer this time now that he knows it makes Sam happy. It would be perfect for Crowley too, if only he couldn't taste blood on the poor boy's lips.

"You'll be fine, Moose."

And just like that, Sam looks reassured.

000

When Dean opens the door, he isn't quite sure what to think.

There's Crowley, eyes fixated on the face of the boy he's currently carrying bridal-style. It isn't the first time that Dean has, begrudgingly, been impressed by his brother's boyfriend's strength. Crowley's eyes are full of concern though, something that sends Dean into a panic because it takes a lot for Crowley to show emotion like that.

And then he sees why. His baby brother's head is lolling from side to side, his eyes huge and blinking as though in a struggle to stay awake, tear stains drying on his cheeks and his face a mask of fear.

Not waiting for Dean to say anything, Crowley simply pushes past him and into the apartment, focussed on getting Sam somewhere that the younger recognises as 'safe'. He's not sure what drug the dickhead slipped Sam, only that he's pretty certain it was put in his drink and wasn't lethal. If it was, Sam would be much worse off than acting like he's paralytic. At least, he hopes so anyway.

He makes it all the way to his bedroom door before Dean grabs him by the shoulder, a murderous glint in his eyes. Crowley huffs out a sigh; he doesn't have time to be dealing with Dean's bullshit when Moose needs him.

"What the fuck happened?" The older Winchester growls. He looks like he's about to make a grab for Sammy, so Crowley pulls his boyfriend in tighter, noting that it makes Sam hum in contentment. "Did you get him drunk?"

"No, I did not!" Crowley replies indignantly, his nerves wearing thin. Well, they always are when the older Winchester brother is concerned. "And he's drugged, not drunk."

"You drugged my brother?"

Crowley rolls his eyes, pretending not to be a tiny bit hurt that he's not trusted to look after his boyfriend, and carries on into his bedroom; he might be strong but Sam's a lot bigger than him and needs to be put down before he's dropped. Not that he'd drop Sam. Not ever.

Gently placing Sam on their bed and sitting down next to him, he turns his attention to placating Dean. He wouldn't really care but if he doesn't deal with this then it'll only lead to an argument and that's the last thing he or Sam needs right now.

Dean's stood in the doorway of the bedroom, looking just about ready to punch something. Preferably Crowley.

"Why'd I drug him? It's not like I'd need to if I wanted to shag Moose." The British man reasons, smirking at the disgusted look on Dean's face. Terrorising his boyfriend's brother is one of the great joys in his life. "It was some wanker at the bar. I left him alone for two minutes..." He swallows down hard, reminding himself of who else is in the room with him. "Found him down an alley. The guy was going to…"

Dean can see the guilt clouding Crowley's face and instantaneously knows that it's the truth; whilst he doesn't trust Crowley, he does however trust that Crowley would never openly show his guilt or misery or anything else that could be considered a weakness unless he could help it. His eyes scan Sammy, seeing that his brother's face looks like he's done a couple of rounds with a brick wall and lost. Now, he knows Crowley wouldn't do that.

He scowls, wanting to go out and murder whoever dared to lay a finger on his precious baby brother. But he can't do that because a) he has no idea who the guy was and b) Sammy needs him here right now, not in prison for beating some pervert slowly to death.

"Fuck." Dean walks into the room, up to the bed and trails a hand through Sammy's hair, noticing how Crowley's holding his brother's hand as though it's the most precious thing in this world. Good; it is. "Poor kid."

"He'll be okay." He tries his best to sound sure and it makes Dean pity the man. "I can look after him."

Dean wants to protest, to say that looking after Sammy is his job, not Crowley's, but somehow he just can't get the words to come out of his mouth. It might be the way Sam still looks terrified in his state of semi-unconsciousness but somehow looks content curled up against Crowley, or the way Crowley is holding Sammy's hand like he's never going to let go. Whatever it is, it makes Dean nod.

"Let me know if he needs me."

The older Winchester turns to leave, shutting the bedroom door quietly behind him. It hurts that he's not the one looking after Sammy anymore but at the same time it's a bittersweet sort of feeling, knowing that his baby brother's got someone to love him in ways that Dean can't.

Crowley gets to work taking off Sam's shoes and socks, dropping them next to the bed. He thinks about taking off his lover's clothes too, but decides against it after realising that it might panic Sam awake after the attack. So he just tucks Sam in and sits on the edge of the bed, still holding his hand.

He's made a promise to himself that he will not sleep tonight; he must keep watch over what is his. He must make sure that Sammy is okay, that he isn't sick and that he has an undisturbed sleep. After all, the last time he left Sam alone it ended badly and he's not about to do it again for a very long time.

Hell, Sam will be lucky if he gets to go to the toilet alone after tonight.

"You're mine, Sam Winchester." He traces a hand over the bruise on his boyfriend's face, his anger only watered down by the fact that now's the time for love, not fury. "I'll never let anyone touch you again. You're mine."

As though reacting to the words, Sam reaches out his spare hand and uses it to pull Crowley closer to him, gripping onto the older man's arm like a vice. Sighing tiredly, Crowley allows the cuddle to happen, laying down next to the eighteen-year-old and smiling softly as his boyfriend buries into his chest like a bullet.

Crowley is by no means a cuddler. Neither is Sam, not really. Only when something is wrong and he feels like he needs that extra contact, that soothing comfort. Sometimes when the pair has an argument and they go to sleep facing away from each other, they wake up cradled in each other's arms. It's their natural response to bad things.

So Crowley cuddles back, knowing that it's the best aid he can give right now.

000

When Crowley is rudely awoken from his dream, it is by a pair of sweaty arms wrapping tightly around his torso.

He's all set to scream at Moose for disturbing his delightful dream about Sam, scotch and ice-cream, but then he sees that it isn't just his boyfriend being purposefully annoying; Sam's eyes are still shut and he's making these horrible noises in his sleep, like he's begging with someone.

Oh. Sam's having a nightmare.

The situation makes Crowley smile. Here he is, in bed with Sam Winchester and he's being the sole source of comfort. Not Dean, not Sam's father, not that Bobby guy who always seems to be phoning the brothers up; it's him. Sam trusts him enough even in sleep to look after him, no matter how much Sam might insist that he doesn't need looking after.

"Easy, Moose." Crowley whispers, letting his arms curl around his boyfriend. "Easy. I'm here."

And that's how Crowley spends the rest of his night; his boyfriend in his arms, whispering sweet nothings to him until he settles back into a peaceful sleep.

Neither of them talk about it in the morning.

000

Crowley does manage to stay up all night, thanks in part to the silent coffee deliveries that Dean makes every couple of hours. Apparently the situation is taking its toll on the older Winchester too, not that Crowley can really blame him.

He's spent the night stroking his lover's body, holding him tight, reassuring Sammy whenever a nightmare looked set to spring. Just waiting for his boyfriend to wake up, for everything to be alright.

It's just gone nine when Sam finally stirs. He doesn't awake slowly, peacefully, like he normally does when he wakes up in Crowley's arms. No, he wakes up with his eyes pinging open, sweeping the room and flooding with an emotion so desperate that it makes jolts of physical pain shock through Crowley's body; he never thought anyone would be able to make feel like this so deeply before he met Sam Winchester.

Sam's eyes finally find Crowley's and they go wide, then shut and then open a crack, a tear trickling out.

Confused, Crowley just thumbs the tear away and nuzzles his nose into the back of his boy's neck. It's unusually touchy-feely for first thing in the morning, but it's kind of needed right now.

"Good morning, Beautiful." The Brit tries, smiling reassuringly, taking Sam's hand in his, and willing him not to fall apart. Because that would mean needing to get Dean involved seeing as he doesn't do the 'comfort' thing all too well. "How are you feeling?"

Sam doesn't answer, just rolls over so that they're properly face-to-face, their noses touching. Sam revels in the close contact, letting it make him feel warm and safe and loved.

"Am I still yours?" He whispers, force hoarse and scratchy.

Crowley, without even needing to think about it, leans forward and captures Sam's lips with his. He lets them linger but doesn't let his hunger filter into it. He wants it to be gentle, full of love and as similar to their first kiss as he can make it be. Sam always has loved the lovey-dovey romantic bullshit.

"You, Sam Winchester," Crowley plants a quick peck to the lips, "are and always will be, mine."