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It starts by accident - a lot of booze, some chick, and Crowley walks in on Dean and that chick. Because he's Crowley and doesn't have a sense of privacy as well as can't be embarrassed he just stands there looking. And then Dean says:
"Are you gonna stand there all night?"
And Crowley says:
"I'm rather enjoying the view."
And the chick says:
"I don't mind a threesome."
Crowley and Dean look at each other and grin.
Crowley gets in bed. The chick starts kissing him and undressing him while Dean stands on his knees behind her and kisses her neck. She turns her head and kisses him on the lips, Dean's hands roaming down her body, Crowley's hands on her breasts. Dean pushes her down on the knees and starts fucking her while she blows Crowley; both men are panting hard, looking at each other over chick's bowed back. Crowley's eyes turn red and Dean's turn black; he thrusts hard, making chick moan over Crowley's cock. Crowley jerks his hips, hands on her head to keep her from pulling away; simultaneously both men reach toward each other, one of Dean's hands leaving chick's hip and latching onto the back of Crowley's head, bringing their mouths together, kissing wide open and dirty. They grin at each other madly; Dean yanks chick into standing position, fucking her quick and hard before coming with a low grunt deep inside. Crowley's eyes are on him, his hand jerking himself off with quick tight strokes; he's coming in no time at all.
It became a part of almost every evening - some bar, some pool, drunken singing, a lot of drinks, and then Dean picks up some girl who doesn't mind a company not only of one but two gentlemen; then one night there's no girl, there's fight and blood and Crowley practically carrying Dean in the room, swearing that he's not gonna heal his broken ribs, no, it's his own goddamn fault, and Dean says:
"Sure you will, otherwise I won't be able to fuck."
And Crowley says:
"In case you didn't notice, there's no girl around."
And Dean raises an eyebrow and smirks, blood on his split lip:
"Do we need one?"
And Crowley curses and heals Dean's ribs, their mouths crashing together, blood tripping on their chins, hands yanking each other's clothes off. They stumble in bed, Dean on top; Crowley snarls and flips them so it's Dean underneath him, fighting for control but spreading his legs wide nonetheless. Crowley spits on his hand and shoves in him two fingers at once, hard and deep; Dean groans as if in pain but obviously not caring, lost in a fog of almost animal lust; when Crowley slides in him, too fast and too soon, he digs his fingernails deep in Crowley's back, hissing, scraping hot skin until it's bleeding. There's nothing human about this, nothing tender: only painful, feverish desire, and when they come it's nothing like a simple release; it's hell's fire, burning all oxygen in the room and leaving red.
They still bring chicks but more often than not it's just the two of them. Dean is always covered in bruises, hickeys and bites now; he's walking funny and sometimes Crowley almost wants to offer heal him, take some pain away, but he doesn't. He likes it, likes to know that Dean Winchester, once The Righteous Man, now belongs to him. Though he doesn't like to think about righteous; when he does, something deep in him, so deep that he prefers not to pay attention to that corner of his mind, stirs sometimes; something like a memory of old Dean Winchester, the real Dean, who would never allow anything like that to happen - not only fucking but killings and violence. But Crowley is not the one to analyze things, so he doesn't. He has plenty of fun with his new pal.
However, things start to somewhat loose their excitement after a couple of months; Dean's attitude, unbelievably, begins to worry Crowley. It's all fun and games but with every passing day it becomes less "Dean Winchester turned bad" and more "I don't even know this demon". Something's not right even by Crowley's standards. He tries to talk - and just the thought of doing something like this, like they're in some kind of relationship, for hell's sake, makes him cringe. This new Dean thinks the same, apparently. And then he's gone.
***
Somehow Crowley does feel better when Squirrel is back with Moose. They are back to their usual bitching and it's strangely comforting. Maybe I'm getting old, muses Crowley but doesn't think too much about it.
Dean is acting like nothing happened, and Crowley's okay with that, though he does think about it sometimes, about blood on his lips and shared fire. He wouldn't mind having it again but Moose and an angel are like damn guards now more than ever, so he doesn't try too hard.
***
They are alone in the empty bar sitting side by side, talking, and Crowley is struck with sudden urge to grab his hair, bare his throat and bite, feel that blood on his tongue once again. He contemplates his chances and decides that Dean, while feeling raw, still more himself and therefore wouldn't yield.
He does it anyway.
Dean, as predicted, reacts badly but Crowley doesn't back down, keeps pressing, more biting than kissing. Dean's grip on his suit's lapels doesn't weaken, but gets harder; he stops trying to tear Crowley away, pulling him closer instead. Crowley growls in triumph and after that it's just like before - blood and violence and lust and fire. His arms leave red prints on Dean's bare skin - he cut himself on broken glass; air smells like spilled alcohol, sweat and sex. A pool table is hard and uncomfortable but he doesn't care; he thrusts into Dean, feeling him squeezing around him uncontrollably, moaning, nails scraping on green tablecloth. He wants them on his spine, digging in, but he can't bring himself to stop and turn him over.
"Harder", Dean growls, face smashed on the table.
"Missed me, Squirrel?" Crowley rasps, doing just that.
"No", Dean pants, pressing his hips closer.
"Liar."
When he's close, when they both are, Crowley lies on him completely and says, lips catching Dean's ear, voice harsh and low:
"Mine", and bites.
"Fuck you", Dean spits and comes, shuddering.
Crowley absolutely satisfied with an answer like that.