#candybarrnerd

The boys she's picked up look worn out. One redhead with ridiculous muscles, one tall brunet—oh, that's obvious, dear—both clearly trying to sleep through interruption, like they're hungover and fuck-exhausted. Probably both true. Crowley looks over both of them. Decently attractive, decent cocks, but neither of them quite a match for her. She sinks back onto her elbows, giving Crowley a considering look. "What have you been up to, anyway? You bailed on me at the bar."

Crowley pushes one bare male foot out of the way and sits on the end of the bed. "I do apologize, darling. Hell had some business that needed doing."

Deanna rolls her eyes. "Business," she says, and drops fully back to the pillows, stretching. "Boring. This is why I have to make my own fun."

"So I see," he says, smiling at her, and then he whacks the redhead on the thigh. "Up. You've done your duty. Get out."

Another groan, but they do wake up, and don't seem surprised to see him. They roll painfully to their feet, dredge up jeans and shoes, smile awkwardly but a little fearfully at Deanna before they go. She tucks a hand behind her head, waves at them, and they scuttle out like they're making an escape.

"What do you do to the poor things," Crowley says.

Deanna smiles at him slow, dangerous. "Oh, like you don't know," she says, and Crowley's very old, and very bad, and he's fucked nastier, crueler things than her, and even so that smile makes something warm swirl, in the corroded pits of him.

She's naked and doesn't care, because she doesn't care about much, anymore. It's thrilling, after all those years of her trussed up in that ridiculous flannel, her hair tied practically back in a ponytail or a plait, clunky boots and a bitchy expression. Now—she arches her back, turns onto her side, and it's all that clear golden skin, unmarked by anything but unexpected spatters of freckles, here and there—on the small of her back, where her body arrows down to that perfect fat arse—and, of course, her mark. The thing that makes her dangerous. Crowley smiles to himself, looking her over. Like she wasn't dangerous already.

"You want to take a picture?" Deanna says, propping her head on her hand. As though Crowley hasn't already. "It might last longer."

"Now, darling," he says, and dares to set his hand on the delicate bone of her ankle. "You'll last forever, you know that perfectly well."

She sweeps her eyes down to evaluate his hand, but apparently the flattery was just enough and she smiles, too. "Hm," she says, and sits up, and shakes her hair back over her shoulders. "Well, immortal or not, I want breakfast."

"Anything," Crowley says.

She rolls her eyes. "I know," she says, and pulls her foot out of his reach, but she leans forward, hands planted on the bed so her shoulders curve in, her tits pushed forward, tempting. "Because you're spoiling me, aren't you? Kinda obvious."

He shrugs one shoulder. "So I'm obvious. You're the most precious thing in my kingdom. You get what you want."

Deanna clucks her tongue, eyes going sarcastically wide. "Lucky me," she says, but Crowley's had enough experience with her over the last month to know that she enjoys it, vile hedonist that she is.

She gives him her breakfast order and he calls it down to room service, watching her go over to the window, pull open the curtain to look at the morning. "As quick as though your life depended on it," he says, to the hapless operator, and she smiles over her shoulder at him. In the light she's haloed, delightfully ironic. When he hangs up he says, "What would you like to do today, my dear?" and she says, sweeping the curtains wider, "That's for me to know," and, predictably, "for you to find out."

Not as clever as she thinks she is, but her power's such that it doesn't quite matter. Crowley's stuck here with her until he can work out a way to manipulate her into something more useful. She draws a bath, bubbles and all, and when the room service arrives he carries it in and she eats, rather disgustingly, there in the water—bacon, a burger, chips with enough salt on them that it must sting, but she groans at how good it all tastes, so he supposes it doesn't matter. When she's done with the bath she stands up, dripping everywhere, and puts her hands on her hips, and screws up her mouth. "Wash my hair," she says, thoughtlessly demanding, and Crowley says, "Of course," and strips down, and turns on the shower, and when it's hot enough to blister living skin he holds out his hand and she walks across the tile and steps under the stream, and sighs blissfully as the suds still clinging to her skin wash away, and he stands behind her and goes to work, massaging her scalp, letting the heavy weight of her hair turn to wet silk under his hands, servile as a maid, doing what his Knight desires.

Like this, Deanna's a contradiction. Infuriating, a little stupid, satisfied by dumb physical pleasure. Not, in those ways, so different from her human self. What he hadn't expected was this strange descent into—girlishness. When the soul corroded, what was left tended to be cruelty, inventive meanness, power-hunger, but then that was after a good, long bit of endurance on the rack as the humanity was carved away, slice by slice. Deanna's change was instant. Human one moment, demon the next. What's left is certainly cruel when it suits her, but what intrigues Crowley, what's keeping him indulging her whims beyond his need for her power, is how she has utterly rejected the constraints she put herself under, when she was simply Deanna Winchester, daughter of John, big sister to Sam, hunter who put the fear of god into monsters and demons alike. He'd expected fucking and drugs, random murder and a lack of empathy, and he'd gotten all of those—he hadn't expected her to demand a trip to a fancy salon for a two thousand dollar haircut, or shopping for lingerie that made his unbeating heart throb to see her in it, or wanting to be—pampered. Treated like a precious jewel. Something she couldn't accept, from her brother's hands. Something she hadn't known, before, how to ask for.

He works the conditioner through, carefully. It's the one the terrified stylist had recommended, and so Crowley had bought it for her, of course. "That'll have to sit," he says, and Deanna sighs, arching into him like a pleased cat. He smiles, kisses her wet shoulder. "I suppose I'll entertain you, shall I?"

"I suppose you shall," Deanna says, so he twines her hair up into a sloppy knot at the base of her neck, and turns her around under the water, and she smiles at him indulgently when he goes to his knees on the cold tile. "Mm. I like you from this angle."

He lifts one of her thighs over his shoulder, kisses the soft inside. "I do live to please," he says, and she cups the back of his head, and when he licks into her cunt it's a soft, sweet heaven, just enough salted tang to make his lips burn. She balances easily, her body perfectly under control, and he cups her arse and settles in, licking deep, nosing her clit, spreading her. Slight taste of spunk from the boys who had her during the night and he imagines what it must have been like—her egging them on, vicious and cute by turns. They might've had her mouth, her cunt, her arse—both at once, perhaps, while she gripped their hair and told them that if she didn't come, they'd be sorry. She killed one man for that, early on, and Crowley had ordered the body removed and soothed her pout and said, darling, if you'd like to come, all you need to do is tell me. It was the first time he'd licked into her when there was blood on her hands but not the last, but it felt right, like that. Centering her in the things that mattered: death and pleasure, what her existence would be, free from conscience and second-guessing.

She comes beautifully, pushing into his mouth and pulling at the back of his hair hard enough that it hurts. "Oh, good," she sighs, and he suckles at her clit a little longer, until it must be oversensitive and throbbing, but she just humps against his face and laughs, pleased. "Overachiever."

He tips his head back, smiles up the expanse of her belly. "Always, my dear," he says, and she rolls her eyes and pushes his face away, and so he stands up, uncoils her hair, rinses it to softness under the water. When they're done she yawns, and he says, "Nap?", and she nods and walks naked and wet back to the bed and flops down, luxuriating.

"Get me off again," she says, and so he sits beside her and slots two fingers inside her cunt, and massages her to a second orgasm while she does absolutely nothing to help, and she drifts off with him still inside her, her damp hair a river of golden-brown on the white pillow, her lips softly parted, utter confidence in every line of her.

He rolls his thumb over her swollen clit, idly, just enjoying the slickness on his fingers, the easy response of her body. This girl. It had been a mistake, he'd thought, when he heard that Michael's vessel had been born female. The apocalypse thwarted, all those centuries of careful planning all ruined. Still, Lilith and Azazel did their parts, and when Sam was born it was thought that it would all work out—a victory for Hell, when Lucifer broke free and took what was his. Crowley watched, waiting, working his way up the ranks. When Deanna came to hell Alastair worked her hard, vicious, and Crowley had come and watched, of course—they all had, all of them with rank high enough—and she screamed, and broke, and when she stood under Alastair's proud hands and picked up the razor for the first time, Crowley didn't think he'd ever seen anything so perfect. He'd looked at her eyes, though, rather than what her hands were doing, and he'd seen something—a flicker. A hope. Alastair hadn't paid attention, glorying in his victory, and Lilith was focused on the work of the seals, now that the first had been broken. It was only Crowley, there, looking into Deanna's eyes, who saw what could be.

He makes calls, while she sleeps. His majordomo frets at him, tediously. He arranges for a clue to be dropped, to have some lackeys of Abaddon's find the hotel. She'll kill them, like she's killed all the others, and that'll be one more problem solved—two, in that it'll entertain her. He hadn't expected, when he retook his throne, how much of his time would be spent on entertaining someone who was, technically, his subject.

Deanna wakes up slowly, in the early evening. Crowley's sitting at the side of the bed, waiting for her. "Mm," is the noise she makes, and he raises his eyebrows, indulgent and curious. "We should have fun, tonight."

"What sort of fun?" he says. He slips his hand over her belly, where it's slightly soft. Too many years of burgers.

"I want—" she starts, and hums, thinking. "Music. Beer."

"Done," he says, and she grins at him, and then snakes a dangerously strong hand around his wrist, squeezes. He looks down at that, and back up at her face, and says, dry, "Unless you'd like something else, first."

"Ooh, see, I knew you were smart," she says, and he sighs but shifts around, on the bed, and settles between her open thighs, and she's still soft and a little wet and he pushes his fingers in and applies his tongue to her clit and gets her off twice, that way, insistent and hard. Easy, when one doesn't require breathing.

After the second she's loose, happy. Her thighs sprawl wide, her cunt open and dripping-wet. He drags his fingers down and plays with her asshole, and she allows that, and when he pushes his fingers in past the tightness she arches her hips into it, and so he fingerfucks her idly that way for a while, flicking his tongue against her clit and ignoring her relentless cunt.

"You'd just do anything, wouldn't you?" she says, dreamy. "Always taking care of me, Crowley."

"Of course, darling," he says, lifting his head, and she's looking down at him, from her place in the pillows. She's pinching one nipple, the skin red and hurt-looking; her other hand's tucked behind her head, and it shows off the mark on her arm. His eyes are drawn to it, always.

It's beautiful, on the pale soft skin. Viciously red, as red as her hurt nipple or her used cuntlips, swollen and sore. All the corruption in her stemming from that point. "My eyes are up here," she says, amused, and he looks up to find her smiling oddly soft, her teeth set gently in her lower lip.

He slips his thumb up through her slick to sink into her cunt, squeezing her inner wall between his fingers. She shifts her hips, spreads her thighs a little wider. She says, idly stroking the underside of her tit, "I want your dick," and that's—a rarer pleasure. He hadn't much indulged, before her. She says, "I want you to come in me," and that certainly won't be a problem. She says, "I want it slow," and that's—

He moves up between her legs. She's still sprawled, watching him, eyes a little sleepy. His vessel has a cock big enough to please, he made sure of that when he chose the poor bastard, and he's certainly hard now, after this long of playing with her body. He teases the tip over her clit and watches her eyes flutter, and drags it through her split wet and teases at her entrance, threateningly thick. "Don't fuck around," she says, and he laughs and says, "Sorry, darling," and pushes inside, and she's as deliciously wet and hot as she is on his fingers or tongue, just the right amount of tight, and he gathers her thighs up around his waist and tips her into the angle that'll be best for her, and rogers her slowly, deep, crushing his cock all the way to her cervix and watching her face flinch with it before he pulls back, does it again, and again.

"Good," she sighs, and he dips his head, kisses her collarbone, dips lower and kisses the top of one full sweet breast. She settles her hands on his shoulders, oddly light, and he doesn't change his pace but pushes in harder, and she makes this little gulping sound and so he knows to keep that strength. She's stronger, but he's not weak, and he can please her, tweaking her body to do his bidding at least with this, if with little else.

It's not just her body he knows how to work, though. "Do you want more, darling," he says, softly, and she groans and says, "Fuck, Crowley—god, yeah, yeah—" and he says, dragging his lips up to the tender skin by her ear, "Do you want it to hurt, darling," and she fucks her hips back against him and he goes a little faster, rougher, sawing in, knowing his dick's thick enough that it does hurt, enough for her to feel it the next day, to make her soiled soul reach in and heal it for her, and he slips a hand down between them and rubs her clit, slippery but rough, and her hips buck and she wraps her legs around his back, demanding, and he lifts on one hand enough to see her eyes closed, chasing her pleasure, and he says, looking at that pretty face, "You want me to fuck you like Sammy would, don't you," and she practically growls and says yes, deep in her chest, and he gathers up her hips and nails her hard, and she arches and moans and says like that, like that, which of course he knows because he watched them, together, over and over, Sam's big body braced over hers, their heads close together, their hands twined, their stupid, connected souls trying to get closer, any way they could. He finds her hand, laces their fingers together and pushes them down into the bed, and she starts to come then, her breath quick and high, and he fucks her through it, her body seizing around him, wanting—not him. Wanting something else.

When he comes, as he's been required to do, he pushes it deep inside her. It gushes up, spilling against her womb, filling. He's used to orgasm but still, with her quivering all around him, it feels good—better, almost, than the human blood had—and he groans and holds and then bends his head and applies his mouth to her mark, where her forearm's pinned to the bed—gets the swollen heat of it under his tongue, the skin bitter, there. Bitter.

She breathes under him, allowing it until she doesn't. "Get off," she says, and he lifts his head, licks his lips. Shifts his hips and drags his cock out of her tightness, and sits back on his knees between her legs. She drips, and slides her fingers down to tuck them inside, pushing his semen back inside herself, her eyes distant. This, too. Familiar. When Sam pulled away, that last time, distressed and disgusted and not forgiving her—he went to clean up, and she watched him go and tucked her hand down, like if she kept the warmth inside it was like keeping him, too.

Deanna's eyes refocus, after a moment. "I want steak for dinner," she says.

Crowley laughs, and climbs off the bed. A snap of his fingers and he's clean, and he redresses while Deanna's still holding onto the strange echo of a lived life. He wonders if she even realizes what she's doing. He nods at her, naked on the bed. "I love you exactly as you are, darling, but you might need to put on at least a scrap of fabric so as not to alarm the waitstaff."

"Lame," she says, but rolls up to her feet, and goes to the pile of random clothes she's accumulated from his indulgences. She selects a black bra, and drops a dark blue dress over her head that she snaps her fingers for Crowley to zip for her, and no panties. She will almost certainly fuck the bartender in the bathroom, before the night's over. She tosses her hair back and doesn't bother with makeup, not that she needs it, and rips the First Blade out of the television and tucks it into the thigh sheath she adores. Easy access. "Okay," she says, impatient, like it's wasn't her who wasted half the day with fucking. "Are we going, or what?"

The Impala reeks as much as the room did, but less of spunk and more of cigarettes, spilled beer, grease. He sits in the passenger seat—Sam's seat—and watches her drive. The Rolling Stones, loud, on the tapedeck. She cranks it louder when Paint It Black comes on and grins, and says, "God, this rocks, doesn't it?"