#drowley angst

(Yes, I hear the innuendo. It was an accident, but you know what? It makes me giggle so I’m leaving it.)

Pairing: Crowley/Dean Words: 1290 Rating: Mature Tags: Angst, Crowley King of Hell, Demon!Dean, Sexual Content (but not really explicit) Summary: Crowley confronts Dean. Dean pushes back, Crowley tries to put him in his place. Things escalate.

(Can be read independently, but belongs to my A Howl at That Moon Crowley/Demon!Dean ficlet series) 

“Out.” Crowley snarled at the crowd of gaping demons that surrounded them.

They scattered from the throne room

He stood and strode across the room to Dean. “You do realize - even your moronic brain must - that the only reason every demon in Hell isn’t trying to kill you is me, and I only have that power for so long as they don’t get it in their god-forsaken heads that they can buck against me!”

Dean looked way too pleased with himself, far too satisfied with the way he had burrowed under Crowley’s skin. As Crowley stood fuming, Dean circled him slowly. “They shouldn’t buck against you. It’d be stupid.” He sat, draping himself across the throne and hanging one leg over the arm of it, grinning at Crowley. “But I am not them, and I don’t give a fuck.”

Crowley pursed his lips together. “You’re in…my chair,” he said with way more calm than he felt.

Dean smirked up at him. “Oh yeah?” He sat up and leaned forward. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”

Crowley saw red. He snapped his fingers, and they were no longer in the throne room but in some unoccupied beach villa - a summer home for people who had more money than they knew what to do with. They had good taste though, so Crowley came here sometimes to get away.

Dean landed in a heap with a satisfying thump.

Dean looked up, agitated. Good. It was nice to get under Dean’s skin for once. “Crowley, what the hell?” he sputtered.

Crowley sneered at him. “You were in my chair.” He watched as Dean stood. “Also, I figured I’d get us a bit of privacy where we can talk, because you seem to have forgotten where it is you stand in this relationship.” Crowley was seething but managed to control it.

Dean paced towards him. “Where I stand?”

“Don’t go toe-to-toe with me, squirrel. You don’t have what it takes.”

Dean shoved him against the wall and pressed against him, hand around his throat. His voice came out a growl. “Prove it.”

Enough.

Crowley slipped from Dean’s grasp and appeared behind him. Who did this…this…child think he was?!

Dean spun around wide-eyed.

“King,” Crowley sneered. “I don’t care if you’re Dean Fucking Winchester. I don’t care that you’re a demon now. I don’t care if you bear the Mark of Cain.” He stepped forward, into Dean’s space, his voice growing louder. “I don’t care if you’re a bloody Knight of Hell! I am the KING!” He blasted Dean against the wall. He’d been patient. Hell, he probably should have killed Dean ages ago…but the bloody pest would have just come back anyway.

Because Dean always came back. Dean kept coming back. He was always gumming up the works, always mucking up Crowley’s plans, and it wasn’t much better now that Dean was a demon…he just saw more of him. The Winchesters had been a constant pain in Crowley’s side, and his softness for them was a disease.

But maybe he liked the disease…

Dean charged at him, first blade drawn.

Crowley easily dodged. He grit his teeth as he faced off with the denim-clad nightmare whose existence threatened everything and yet had become so essential for him.

Because maybe Crowley bloody liked that there was someone who could stand toe-to-toe with him…and who was willing to even when he actually couldn’t. Even when Dean had been human, he had been willing to face off with monsters and gods and angels and demons and the King of Hell himself. And as infuriating as that stubborn arrogance was…maybe - regardless of what he would have anyone believe - he actually kind of liked that about Dean.

Crowley flitted around the room, watching with satisfaction as Dean repeatedly lunged only to slice through nothing and grab at thin air.

Dean spun around. “Stop dodging and fight me, you slimy son of a bitch!”

“If you insist…” Crowley slung Dean against the wall and materialized in front of him. He pressed against him. Crowley could feel his blood boiling. “But maybe… you’re more useful alive, and if I fight you, I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Bullshit!” Dean pressed back. “That’s a  goddamn excuse, and you know it!”

“Oh, fuck you!” Crowley spat back.

Dean leaned forward. “Do it yourself, coward,” he practically growled against Crowley’s lips.

Crowley grit his teeth and glared up at the ex-hunter.

Dean leaned his head back a fraction and smirked. “What?” His voice dipped through the floor. “You think I don’t know how bad you want to?” Dean challenged.

Crowley held his ground, but he could feel his will crumbling. “I will not be told what to do by some half-baked, fledgeling, karaoke-wannabe, fashion nightmare!”

Dean grabbed Crowley by the hips and roughly pulled him forward. He leaned forward until Crowley could feel Dean’s breath ghosting across his lips. “What about being asked nicely?”

Cocky squirrel…

Crowley gripped the collar of Dean’s flannel shirt, yanked him down to a normal height, and crashed his mouth to Dean’s. It wasn't gentle. Dear mother of monsters, he hated how badly he wanted it to be gentle…be he squashed the feeling. He dug his fingers into Dean’s sides, hating how much he wanted to run them smoothly over Dean’s skin. He reached up and grabbed Dean by the hair and yanked his head back, hating how much he wanted to mouth at Dean’s jawline, his neck; he settled for sinking his teeth into Dean’s collarbone. He hated how he wanted to take Dean apart slowly, break him down into his basest elements and urges until Dean knew nothing but Crowley’s hands on him and could only cry out words that were Crowley’s name.

Maybe someday…gods, maybe someday…but not tonight.

Tonight, they tore into each other. Tonight, they broke mirrors and desks and tables and chairs. Tonight, they fucked against counters and couches and walls and floors but not the beds…anywhere but the beds. If Crowley had believed that any gods were on his side, he would have thanked them for the small mercy that at the end of it, he ended up against a bedroom wall; because here - even with Dean soft and collapsed against him and sticking to his skin and tracing his nose up the side of Crowley’s neck and breathing that was fun against his ear - it was still better than the bed.

Because here - against the wall - Dean would soon move away, and Crowley would be left standing to gather himself and the pieces of his suit that had been scattered here and there. Here, he wouldn’t have to fight the urge to pull Dean back down into a soft mattress and drag him into slow, lazy kisses and tangled limbs; because then…how would Crowley not spend the next innumerous hours explaining to Dean with his tongue and his hands and his dick and all the tricks he knew every single thing that they’d been missing?

Yes, Crowley thought as Dean pulled away, leaving Crowley cold and alone to find his clothes, this is most assuredly better. Crowley closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, then moved to gather his own clothing.

He was stopped by firm hands on his hips and a warm body pressing against his back. Dean’s breath tickled as he bent down to kiss at the skin just behind Crowley’s ear. “You know,” he breathed, and it ran chills down Crowley’s spine, “I think we forgot to try the beds.”

Bollocks.