#drowley smut

Dean sat alone in the dimly lit motel room, his hand trembling as he stared at the Mark of Cain branded into his forearm. It pulsed with a dark energy that seemed to seep into his very bones, whispering promises of violence and power that made his skin crawl it tempted him. He'd been fighting it for weeks now, months really, and the constant battle was wearing him down to nothing.

Sleep had become a luxury he couldn't afford. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw blood. Felt the urge to kill, to destroy, to give in to the primal darkness that the Mark demanded. Sam kept looking at him with those worried puppy-dog eyes, and Dean couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand being a burden, couldn't stand being a monster in waiting.

He needed relief, something to quiet the screaming in his head.

The knock at the door made him jump, hand instinctively reaching for the gun on the nightstand. But the voice that followed was familiar, if unwelcome.

"Now, now, Squirrel. Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

Dean's jaw clenched. "Crowley. What the hell do you want?"

The door swung open, and the King of Hell himself strolled in like he owned the place, immaculate in his black suit, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. His eyes swept over Dean with an assessment that felt invasive.

"My, my," Crowley purred, closing the door behind him with a casual wave of his hand. "You look absolutely dreadful, darling. The Mark's really doing a number on you, isn't it?"

"Get out." Dean's voice was rough, strained. He didn't have the energy for Crowley's games tonight.

"Oh, I don't think so." Crowley moved closer, circling Dean like a predator sizing up wounded prey. "You see, I have a vested interest in keeping you functional. Can't have my favorite Winchester falling apart at the seams. Bad for business."

Dean laughed bitterly. "Since when am I 'your business'?"

"Since you became the bearer of the Mark of Cain." Crowley stopped in front of him, close enough that Dean could smell the expensive cologne, see the flecks of amber in those dark eyes. "You're special now, Dean. Powerful. But all that power is useless if you're too strung out to use it properly."

"I don't want your help."

"Don't you?" Crowley's voice dropped lower, more intimate. "I can see it in your eyes, love. You're desperate. Exhausted. The Mark is eating you alive from the inside out, and you'd do just about anything for a moment's peace, wouldn't you?"

Dean wanted to deny it, but the words stuck in his throat. Because Crowley was right.

"What are you offering?" Dean heard himself ask, hating the weakness in his voice.

Crowley's smile widened, triumphant. "Relief. Real, genuine relief. I can help you relax, Dean. Help you quiet that incessant noise in your head. All you have to do is trust me."

"Trust you? Yeah I've heard that one before."

Crowley moved even closer, his voice dropping to a hypnotic murmur. "I'm offering you a gift. A chance to let go of all that stress, all that burden. Just for a little while. Don't you want that?"

Dean's resistance was crumbling. He was so tired. So goddamn tired.

"How?" he whispered.

"Hypnosis," Crowley said simply. "A little trick I picked up over the centuries. Completely harmless, I assure you. I'll simply guide you into a deeply relaxed state where the Mark can't touch you. Where nothing can touch you. You'll feel better than you have in months."

It sounded too good to be true. It probably was. He Dean thought for a second then huffed a defeated "Fine."

"That's my boy," Crowley purred. "Now, why don't you sit down on the bed? Get comfortable."

Dean obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress. His whole body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and the constant pressure of the Mark. Crowley pulled up a chair, sitting directly in front of him, their knees almost touching.

"Look at me, Dean," Crowley commanded softly. "Look into my eyes."

Dean met his gaze, and immediately felt something shift. Crowley's eyes seemed darker somehow, deeper, like pools of shadow that Dean could fall into. The demon's voice continued, low and rhythmic.

"That's it. Just focus on my voice. Let everything else fade away. The Mark, your worries, your responsibilities—none of that matters right now. Right now, there's only my voice and the feeling of relaxation spreading through your body."

Dean tried to hold onto his skepticism, his natural distrust, but it was slipping away like water through his fingers. Crowley's voice was so soothing, so compelling. Each word seemed to sink into his mind, making him feel heavier, calmer.

"Your eyelids are getting heavy," Crowley murmured. "So heavy. It's becoming harder and harder to keep them open. And that's okay. You can let them close. You're safe here. You can let go."

Dean's eyes fluttered. He wanted to fight it, but why? This felt good. Better than anything had felt in so long. His eyelids drooped, then closed completely.

"Excellent," Crowley's voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Now, take a deep breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth. With each breath, you're sinking deeper and deeper into relaxation. Deeper and deeper into my voice."

Dean breathed, and with each exhale, he felt himself falling into a place where the Mark's screaming was just a distant whisper. His body went slack, muscles releasing tension he'd been carrying for months.

"You're doing so well, Dean," Crowley praised, and the words sent a shiver down Deans spine. "So obedient. So responsive. You want to please me, don't you? You want to do what I say because my words make you feel so good."

"Yes," Dean heard himself murmur, his voice distant and dreamy.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes... want to please you..."

"Good boy." Crowley's hand touched Dean's knee, and even through the fabric of his jeans, the contact sent electricity through his system. "You're completely relaxed now. Completely open. And you trust me, don't you, Dean? You trust me to take care of you."

Some distant part of Dean's mind screamed a warning, but it was so far away, so easy to ignore. The voice in front of him was so much louder, so much more important.

"Trust you," Dean echoed.

"That's right. And because you trust me, you're going to do exactly what I tell you. You're going to be such a good, obedient boy for me. Doesn't that sound nice?"

"Yes..."

Crowley's hand slid higher up Dean's thigh, and Dean's body responded with a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the Mark. "Look at you," Crowley murmured. "So pliant. Open your eyes, Dean. Look at me."

Dean's eyes opened, but they were unfocused, glazed. He looked at Crowley without really seeing him, lost in the hypnotic haze.

"Perfect." Crowley breathed. "Now, stand up."

Dean stood, his movements slow and dreamlike. Crowley rose with him, circling around behind him. Dean felt hands on his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles there, and he let out a soft moan of pleasure.

"You like that, don't you?" Crowley's breath was hot against Dean's ear. "You like being controlled. The Mark makes you want to dominate, to destroy, but deep down, you're tired of fighting. You want someone else to take control. You want to submit."

"Submit," Dean repeated, the word feeling right on his tongue.

"Yes. Submit to me." Crowley's hands slid down Dean's chest, fingers working at the buttons of his flannel shirt. "Let me take care of you. Let me give you what you need."

Dean stood passively as Crowley undressed him, removing his shirt, then his undershirt, baring his chest to the cool air of the motel room. Crowley's hands explored the exposed skin, tracing the lines of muscle, the scars that told stories of violence and survival.

"Magnificent," Crowley murmured appreciatively. "Such a perfect vessel. And all mine, at least for tonight."

His fingers found Dean's nipples, circling them, teasing them to hardness. Dean gasped, his body responding even as his mind floated in that hypnotic space where nothing mattered except Crowley's voice and touch.

"You're getting aroused," Crowley observed, his hand sliding down to cup the growing bulge in Dean's jeans. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your conscious mind is too stubborn to admit it. But you're not stubborn now, are you, Dean? Are you going to be good for me?"

"I'll be good," Dean breathed.

"Excellent." Crowley moved around to face Dean again, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. "On your knees."

Dean slowly sank to his knees, looking up at Crowley with those hazy, unfocused eyes. Crowley reached down, running his fingers through Dean's hair almost tenderly before gripping it firmly.

"You look so perfect like this," Crowley said. "On your knees, waiting for my command. Do you know what I'm going to do to you, Dean?"

Dean shook his head slightly, the movement restricted by Crowley's grip on his hair.

"I'm going to fuck that pretty mouth of yours. And you're going to take it. You're mine right now. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Good boy."

Crowley released Dean's hair long enough to unfasten his belt, the sound of the buckle loud in the quiet room. He unzipped his trousers, freeing his cock, already hard and flushed with arousal. He gripped himself, stroking slowly as he looked down at Dean's upturned face.

"Open your mouth," Crowley commanded.

Dean's lips parted obediently, and Crowley guided his cock between them, groaning at the wet heat that enveloped him. Dean's mouth was perfect—soft and warm and willing. Crowley pushed deeper, watching Dean's throat work to accommodate him.

"That's it," Crowley praised, his voice rough with pleasure. "Take it all. You can take it, can't you?"

Dean made a soft sound of agreement around Crowley's cock, and the vibration made Crowley's hips jerk forward involuntarily. He set a rhythm, fucking Dean's mouth with increasing intensity, one hand tangled in Dean's hair to hold him in place.

"So good," Crowley groaned. "Who would have thought? The great Dean Winchester, on his knees, letting the King of Hell use his mouth. If only your brother could see you now..."

The mention of Sam should have sparked something in Dean. Anger, shame, resistance. but in his state, it barely registered. All that mattered was the weight on his tongue and the taste of Crowley's skin.

Crowley pulled out before he could finish, his cock glistening with saliva. "As much as I'm enjoying this, I have other plans for you. Stand up."

Dean rose on shaky legs, and Crowley guided him toward the bed, pushing him down onto his back. Crowley made quick work of Dean's jeans and boots, stripping him completely naked. He took a moment to admire the view—Dean Winchester, laid out like a feast, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach, his eyes still glazed with hypnotic compliance.

"Beautiful," Crowley murmured, shrugging out of his own clothes with supernatural efficiency

He climbed onto the bed, settling between Dean's spread legs. His hand wrapped around Dean's cock, stroking it slowly, drawing a moan from Dean's lips.

"You're so responsive," Crowley observed. "So sensitive."

He released Dean's cock, reaching for the small bottle of oil he'd conjured from thin air. He slicked his fingers, then reached between Dean's legs, circling his entrance with teasing pressure.

"Relax," Crowley commanded, and Dean's body obeyed, muscles going loose and pliant. "That's it. Let me in."

He pushed one finger inside, and Dean's back arched off the bed, a cry escaping his lips. Crowley worked him open slowly, methodically, adding a second finger, then a third, stretching him, preparing him.

"You've never done this before, have you?" Crowley asked, though he already knew the answer.

"No..." Dean whimpered, his hips moving restlessly, seeking more of Crowley's touch.

"That's right." Crowley withdrew his fingers, slicking his cock with the oil. He positioned himself at Dean's entrance, the head of his cock pressing against that tight ring of muscle. "Look at me, Dean. I want to see your eyes."

Dean's glazed eyes focused on Crowley's face as the demon pushed forward, filling him inch by inch. The stretch was intense, overwhelming, but Dean's hypnotized mind interpreted it all as pleasure, as rightness. He moaned, his hands clutching at the sheets beneath him.

"Fuck," Crowley groaned as he bottomed out, fully seated inside Dean's tight hole.

He started to move, pulling out almost completely before thrusting back in, setting a deep, steady rhythm. Dean's body accepted him, welcomed him, moving in sync with Crowley's thrusts. The room filled with the sounds of skin against skin, of breathless moans and whispered curses.

Crowley leaned down, capturing Dean's mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing his moans as he fucked him harder, faster. His hand found Dean's cock again, stroking in time with his thrusts, driving Dean toward the edge.

Dean gasped, his body tensing, trembling on the precipice. His orgasm hit him like a tidal wave. He cried out, his body clenching around Crowley's cock as he spilled over Crowley's hand and his own stomach.

The sensation of Dean coming apart beneath him, pushed Crowley over the edge. He thrust deep one final time, burying himself to the hilt as his own release overtook him, filling Dean with his seed.

For a long moment, they stayed like that, connected, breathing hard. Then Crowley slowly withdrew, admiring the sight of his cum leaking from Dean.

"Such a good boy," Crowley murmured, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to Dean's temple. "You did so well for me."

Dean lay there, boneless and sated, his mind still floating in that hypnotic haze. Crowley cleaned them both with another wave of his hand, then settled beside Dean on the bed, running his fingers through Dean's sweat-dampened hair.

"Now," Crowley said softly, "when I count to three, you're going to start waking up. You'll remember everything that happened, but you won't feel shame or regret. You'll only remember how good it felt. How much you needed it. And you'll know that whenever the Mark becomes too much, whenever you need relief, you can come to me. Understand?"

"Yes," Dean murmured.

"One... you're starting to come back to yourself. Two... you're becoming more aware, more present. Three... wake up, Dean."

Dean's eyes cleared, focus returning to them. For a moment, he looked confused, disoriented. Then memory flooded back—Crowley's voice, the hypnosis, everything that had happened after. His hand flew to his mouth, his eyes wide with shock.

"What... what did you..." Dean started, but the words died in his throat.

Because he didn't feel violated. Didn't feel angry or disgusted. He felt... good. Relaxed. The Mark's constant screaming had quieted to a whisper. His body felt loose and satisfied in a way it hadn't in months.

"How do you feel?" Crowley asked, watching him carefully.

Dean took inventory of himself, expecting horror, expecting rage. But all he found was a strange sense of peace. "... Better," he admitted reluctantly.

"Of course you do." Crowley sat up, beginning to dress himself with casual elegance. "I told you I could help. And I can continue to help, whenever you need it. All you have to do is ask."

Dean sat up slowly, pulling the sheet over his lap, suddenly aware of his nakedness. "This was... Hey! You took advantage-"

"I gave you exactly what you needed," Crowley corrected.

Dean wanted to argue, wanted to be angry, but he couldn't deny the truth. The Mark was quiet. His mind was clear. He felt more like himself than he had in weeks.

"This can't happen again," Dean said, but even he could hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

Crowley smiled knowingly. "We'll see about that, darling. We'll see." He finished buttoning his shirt, straightening his tie. "I'll leave you to process. But remember—I'm always just a phone call away. When the Mark starts screaming again, when you're desperate for relief, you know where to find me."

With that, Crowley vanished, leaving Dean alone in the motel room, naked and confused and feeling better than he had any right to feel.

Dean looked down at the Mark on his arm. It was still there, still dark and ominous. But for the first time in months, it didn't feel like it was consuming him. He had breathing room. Space to think.

And deep down, in a place he wasn't ready to examine too closely, he knew Crowley was right.

Because as much as he hated to admit it, he needed it.

He needed that.

Dean fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying every moment of what had just happened. The hypnosis. The submission. The pleasure. It should have felt wrong.