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Something to hold when I lose my grip

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Sam wakes up groggy, cold, with a pounding headache. It takes him a few blinks to clear his vision, and that's when he realises he's tied up, because he goes to rub his eyes and he can't. His wrists are cinched tight behind his back. He's lying on his bed in the bunker, propped up against the bedhead, and he's cold, he figures out after another second, because he's buck fucking naked.

'Aah. Back with me, I see,' says Crowley softly. Sam wrenches himself into a full sitting position, his stomach muscles cramping in agony as he does so. Sitting in the armchair Sam'd dragged in here from the library when he'd wanted to read in privacy (and cough up blood in privacy, and drink too much in privacy), is Crowley, the King of Hell himself, and he looks comfortable. Too comfortable for Sam's liking.

'How long have you been here?' Sam snarls, trying to pull his wrists free. Feels like zipties though, not cuffs which he might have been able to slip or pick. And he'd bet any money Crowley wasn't dumb enough to leave either the gun or the bowie knife Sam usually sleeps with under the pillow where he left them.

'How long have you been playing Sleeping Beauty, do you mean? Long enough.'

'What did you give me?' There's a nasty chemical taste in Sam's mouth. 'Did you fucking roofie me?'

'I may have slipped you something, to help you calm down. I didn't originally intend for it to put you to sleep, but sometimes the universe does throw one a bone. You're a lot easier to move when you're unconscious. It was for your own good, Moose. You've been working long hours and not getting the rest you need. Consider it a favour. A helping hand. You'll never find your brother if you work yourself into an early grave now, will you?'

'You know where Dean is? Tell me, or I'll -'

'You're hardly in a position to negotiate, sweetcheeks. Your beloved brother is safe. Didn't he leave you a note? Thought it was a lovely touch, myself. Of course, I could have told him it wouldn't work ...' Crowley shrugs, looking down at his fingernails as if they're far more interesting than Sam. 'But I guess he doesn't know you as well as I do, does he.'

'Shut up, Crowley. Untie me!'

'Now why would I do that, when I went to all the trouble of getting you trussed up just how I want you?' Crowley gets up and leans over the bed, trailing a finger over Sam's ankle. Sam kicks at him. 'Shhh, pet.'

'I'm not your fucking pet,' Sam spits. He pushes himself to the edge of the bed and is about to get up, because he can fucking kick Crowley's stupid ass even naked and with his hands tied behind his back literally - but then he's stopped.

'Ah-ah,' says Crowley, one hand raised and his power making a wall that Sam can't push through. 'You stay where I put you, Sam, or I'll make you stay in ways you really won't like.'

Sam glares at him, through the straggly curtain of his hair, and tries one last attempt to move, but it's no good. He huffs an angry breath, and moves back, wriggling back up the mattress. The pressure drops.

'Good boy,' Crowley murmurs. He pets at Sam's leg again, higher up this time.

'What is this about, Crowley?' Sam asks, He shoves his way back up against the pillows, trying to get them to support his back so that he can keep looking Crowley in the eye. 'Why the fuck am I naked? I'm not in the mood for stupid games. Dean's -'

'Dean's otherwise occupied, poppet. You, on the other hand, could use a distraction.' Crowley isn't leaving off petting him. He's up to Sam's knee now, still just one finger, barely any pressure. Sam's frustrated enough with him to consider, just for a second, the fact that any second now Crowley will be close enough for a bite …

'Being drugged, stripped naked and tied up isn't a distraction, it's a felony,' says Sam flatly. 'If you hadn't got the fucking memo, I'm busy. And anyway, you're not my type.'

'I beg to differ. And as for your state of dress, would you prefer a frilly pair of knickers, Samantha?' Crowley asks conversationally. 'Last time I suggested a leather bustier, didn't seem to appeal. So how about something more … traditionally feminine?'

Sam rolls his eyes. 'Look, joke's over. Ha ha. You caught me napping, and now, what? Is this some kind of stupid frat boy prank? You gonna make me wear something humiliating and call you sir, to prove you're the boss of me?' He strains against the zipties again, grinding his teeth in frustration. This is dumb. Every minute he's sitting here getting mocked by Crowley, Dean's off god knows where, doing god knows what. This is a waste of Sam's fucking time.

'I don't need to prove I'm the boss of you,' Crowley says softly. He sits on the mattress next to Sam, and his hand is now on Sam's hip and this is getting uncomfortable, suggestive in a way that Sam doesn't like, somehow more so than the nudity and the zipties, which could just be a power-play thing. 'I just need you to admit it. Do you want to know what I think, Moose?'

'No,' says Sam, biting down on the urge to squirm. Crowley's hand is warm in the chilly air of the bunker. Sam can feel the gooseflesh crawling down his arms and legs. 'I don't give a flying fuck what you think.'

'I think you like our little sparring matches,' Crowley says as if he hasn't even heard Sam. 'I think you like it when someone puts you in your place, even if you won't do as you're told when you're there. I hear gossip, you know,' he adds. 'Little whispers, from little birdies. One or two of my little birdies have known you pretty well, Sammy. And I do mean known. In the Biblical sense, you might say.'

Sam kicks at Crowley harder than before, manages to dislodge his hand, and starts trying to get off the bed again. Crowley pins him without even a second's hesitation, and this time when his hand settles back on Sam's hip his thumb starts to rub little circles that would be soothing if, well, if it weren't Crowley.

'Ruby said you liked it when she made you take it,' Crowley continues, like Sam isn't practically vibrating with anger as he tries to fight the restraints. 'And I don't think she was talking about the blood. She was a feisty little minx, that one. Difficult to get close enough to talk to - typical sleeper agent, too clever by half - but you know demons. They like to brag, and it was safe enough to brag about you as long as she stuck to the basics. And who can blame her for wanting to talk?' Crowley's hand smooths over Sam's aching abs, up his chest over one pec, coming to rest over his heart. 'Not me. But then I always was an … admirer of art.'

'Oh my god, you love the sound of your own voice,' Sam says, filling his voice with as much angry sarcasm as he can muster. 'Is this the best you can do? You're gonna molest me and bring up ancient history? It's over, Crowley, it's dead and buried. The Apocalypse is long fucking done. So will you please just - '

'Now Meg, Meg really did like you. She liked you for you, did you know that?' Crowley sounds amused by the situation. 'Ruby was playing you, sure, but Meg … well. She was your first. That's always … special.' He's drawing abstract, winding little patterns over Sam's skin with his fingertips, soft like he never did the smallest piece of work in his entire life, which is probably true, and then the rough scrape of his fingernails catches. It's almost hypnotic, combined with his low, warm voice. 'She took you gently, too. Worked you open so carefully you never even felt a thing when she slid in. She told me, Sam, she told me the whole sordid story, even though I had to cut it out of her. How you just let her in, soft and easy, and she rode you for days, like the best horse at the races.' He twists his fingers suddenly, a sharp pinch to Sam's nipple, and Sam jacknifes against him, his heartrate spiking, and an unwanted, hateful flush of blood rushing to his dick.

'Fuck you,' Sam chokes out, willing his body not to react. 'What are you trying to prove, Crowley? That I'm demonic? Unclean? I know, okay. I know. But you know what else I know? I don't have to be that. I don't have to be like you.'

'Oh now, Sam,' Crowley says, like Sam's a favourite pupil who's made a mistake in class. 'Come on, you can do better than that.' He's plucking at Sam's nipple again, hardened from the touching and the cold, and it's like a harpstring tied directly to his cock, tension rising with every strum. 'I thought you were the brains of this sorry outfit, huh? Men of Letters ringing a bell? I know you're a human, you know you're a human - maybe … seasoned a little, maybe just a little bit dark, but human all the same.'

'Then what?' Sam demands, hating his body for not doing what he tells it. 'What the fuck are you trying to prove?'

Crowley smirks, pushing the pad of his thumb against the sore place he's been abusing, rubbing it until the sting has turned into a dull ache. 'Ruby never quite got in,' he says, as if he's mulling it over. 'And Meg, well, she snuck in under the wire. But Lucifer -'

'No,' Sam says. He tries to jerk his body away again, desperate to not - no. Not this. This is not a conversational topic. He bares his teeth, ready to bite if that's the only weapon he's got left, but Crowley doesn't give him the leverage or get in range. 'We're not talking about this.'

'You didn't just let him in, you invited him,' Crowley says. He strokes his hand through Sam's hair, pushing it out of his face, rubbing one thumb over Sam's cheek and it's the gentlest Sam's been touched since Dean pulled him out of that church and his body started to disintegrate from the inside. 'I read that wet blanket's books, you know. Drivel, mostly, and unbelievably derivative, but … illuminating. Particularly on the subject of your headspace, pet.'

Sam's panting now, breathing is hard, he's so angry his chest feels tight and full, buzzing like a hornet's nest, and Crowley's expression is a soft, sympathetic fake of human emotions when he says, 'I know you like to think you were making a heroic sacrifice, but I know sacrifice, darling. I know selflessness, altruism - you see a lot of good intentions in my line of work - and that wasn't either. You wanted it,' he breathes into Sam's ear. 'Not even that deep down in your tortured little soul, you wanted to be taken over. Used. Owned. And who better to fill all those deep little holes you convinced yourself you were made of than the Devil himself? You aren't demonic, Sam. You're not evil. But you crave evil's touch.'

There aren't even words. The red mist is no fucking cliche; Sam's spent years trying to learn to keep it at bay. He's having trouble fighting it now, digging his fingernails into the scarred palms of his hands and biting the inside of his cheeks hard to keep from doing or saying something he'll regret. Think, he snarls at himself. Fucking say something, Winchester - and deep out of the depths of Sam comes a little internal voice he hasn't heard in a while.

Relax. It's just a kinky thing, the … the memory of being soulless, Sam's basic instincts, his id, whatever it is ... says lazily. Out loud Sam says to Crowley, 'Believe whatever you like, but if you don't take your fucking hands off me right now, I'll chop the fucking things off the second I get free, pet.'

He tries to knee Crowley off of him this time, and internally, the pragmatic train of thought keeps unrolling. It's just sex. Demons have always had a hard-on for us. So we let him take a ride, if that's what he wants, and then when he's distracted we stab him in the eyeball. Look at it this way, it means he wants something from us. We can use that. The memories of being soulless are a deep well of awful that Sam doesn't like drawing from, but just occasionally, his lizard brain has a tactical point. He's not going to get out of this by physical force. He's going to have to play the King of Hell at his own game.

And like Crowley pointed out, it won't be the first time Sam's fucked a demon.

Sam's threat rolls off Crowley like water off a duck's back. 'Don't you deserve to have the things you crave?' he asks, rubbing his fingers over Sam's belly, close to his cock and dipping into the smear of fluid Sam hadn't realised it was drooling. 'I can give them to you, Sam.'

'Oh yeah?' Sam pants. He lets himself sound like he's considering it. 'What's your price? C'mon Crowley, there's always a goddamn price.'

He knows Crowley's registered that that wasn't a no. He's not the only goddamn con artist in the room, crossroads demon or not.

'You're the price. Or the prize. This can be as simple as you make it, Moose. You want me to touch you. I want to touch you.'

'No ulterior motive?' Sam lets himself relax under Crowley's hand, muscle by muscle. 'You expect me to believe that?'

'Does it matter? A deal with me is solid, you know that,' Crowley says. 'No fine print, no hidden agenda. It's simple. I'm going to make you scream my name. I'm going to make you beg me to let you come. I'm going to teach you about ecstasies you've never felt before - and all you have to do for me, is let me do it.'

'Trying to prove you're better than Lucifer, is that it?' Sam sneers, because he can't look like he's giving in too easy.

'Do we have an accord?'

'Do you tie up all your one night stands?'

'I said, do we have an accord?'

'Am I going to need a safeword?'

Crowley slaps him on the hip, hard. 'Winchester -'

'Fine. We have a goddamn accord,' Sam barely gets the words out before Crowley kisses him. And it's not just a peck on the lips, either. It's deep and hard and bruising, and it does feel like the seal on a pact, more like a spell than a kiss. Or maybe Sam's forgotten what kissing is like. He has more recent experiences with the former than the latter anyway.

Crowley pulls away, and Sam has to catch his breath. It makes Crowley smile his smug little self-satisfied smile. 'That's my boy,' he says, and gets up off the bed.

'What - where are you going?' Sam asks, and he doesn't have to fake the bewilderment in his voice. Crowley walking away from him was not in the plan. The plan was to get it on and turn the tables in the process.

'I brought a few things to help us along.' Crowley goes over to Sam's desk and starts playing with things that Sam definitely doesn't recognise as stuff he left there. How fucking long was Crowley sniffing around in here? Sam has weapons he doesn't want demons having access to - books, too, and other, private things. His photos. Dean's room, which he hasn't been able to bring himself to touch. Sam forces himself to concentrate on Crowley rather than think about Dean. He's touching these objects of his - sex toys, Sam, face it, they're sex toys, on your desk - as if he's mulling over his choices. He looks back at Sam, then picks something up. 'Spread your legs,' he says, and comes back over to the bed.

Sam doesn't care how tactical this is, he didn't sign on for shit that involves him spreading his legs and whatever that is that Crowley has in his hand.

Crowley sighs fondly, and puts a hand on Sam's knee. 'I said spread 'em, darling. Trust me, you'll like this. I'll be gentle, I promise.''

'If you think you're sticking anything up my ass -' Sam says defiantly, but it only makes Crowley's smile wider and worse.

'We had a deal,' he reminds Sam. 'And perhaps I didn't set any fine print, but neither did you. So your tender, and I'm now guessing virginal, little arse is mine tonight, and I intend to enjoy it thoroughly.' He pushes down against Sam's knee and forces him to spread wide. 'That's better.'

'I thought you were gonna do stuff to make me scream and beg,' Sam says, eyeing Crowley warily as he reaches for a tube of lube. 'Ass-play is not gonna get me there. I can tell you that now, you're wasting your time.'

'Don't knock it if you haven't tried it, pudding,' says Crowley off-handedly as he slicks up the toy, which Sam can now identify as a dildo, or something similar, although it doesn't give him any great joy to be able to do so. He can feel his insides clenching, and his dick is starting to wilt. He should be grateful for that, at least. Crowley's gonna lose his end of the bargain. 'And just you let me worry about getting you to the screaming and begging stages.'

'What makes you think I haven't tried it?' Sam tries.

Crowley just looks at him, and rolls his eyes. He reaches forward and lays the flat of one palm to Sam's quivering thigh. 'Relax,' he says, and nudges the wet silicone into place, so that the tip of it is just touching at Sam's hole.

Sam freezes.

'That's what makes me think you haven't tried it,' Crowley says, and pulls the thing back a little, so there's contact but no pressure. He moves it around instead, making it leave slick, soft little trails along the inside of Sam's thigh, kissing at his balls and the space underneath them, and Crowley's thumb starts again with rubbing little circles into Sam's skin, against the grain, until Sam's not so tense any more. The dildo gets dragged up against Sam's dick, starting to chub up fully again, and when Crowley touches the end of it to Sam's slit he jerks like he's been tasered, shocked by how good it feels. 'Not so scary now, is it?' Crowley murmurs, stroking Sam's skin like he's a pet dog. 'Are you going to let me use it properly?'

Intellectually Sam understands that it's in his best interest to give Crowley what he wants right now, in exchange for tactical advantage later. It's that that makes him swallow the kneejerk reaction, force his knees to stay flat to the mattress, and choke out the word 'yes'. It's just sex. He's done worse.

Crowley practically purrs. 'Good boy,' he says, and traces the cut of Sam's hip with the dildo until he's sliding back down over the big tendon of his thigh, the join from limb to body, and then down into the space it was in before, tucked up between the cheeks of Sam's ass, at the entrance to his body. Sam forces himself not to tense.

Crowley takes it slow. Glacially, painfully slow, and the stupid thing must be at least a mile long, gently curved and smooth and getting wider as it gets further in, stretching Sam out in ways he's never felt before, from the inside out. 'You were made for this,' Crowley tells him in that rough bedroom whisper of his. 'Made to take. You're swallowing this thing whole, Moose. I don't know if it's going to be enough for you.'

It hurts. Not as bad as it could, it's only a dull sort of ache, nothing dramatic, and Sam's used to things hurting, but it thrums through him, hard at first before it eases. This is why Sam never did this before. Because he knew it would feel like this. He knew it wouldn't do anything for him. He fucking knew. He turns his face away so he doesn't have to look at Crowley.

And then something shifts, turns, and the dildo hits something inside him that lights up that ache into a flaring burn, the good kind. Sam can't help the whimper that it rips out of his throat. 'There we go,' says Crowley. 'You like that?' He pushes the toy in further, firmer, so that it feels like every time Sam breathes it bumps him inside right there. It's too much.

'Please,' Sam says, trying to explain, but the words won't come out. 'I - please, God, just - I don't -'

'I'm not God,' says Crowley. 'God doesn't have half my imagination. Now why don't you open your legs back up like a good boy, and let me see.'

Sam didn't even realise he'd closed them. It's an effort, a physical effort, to force his knees to widen out again. Sam wants to clench everything in tight to put pressure where he wants it, force the pleasure as high as he can and ignore the pain that's still riding along with it. But Crowley wants - and Sam said he would let him do what he wanted. So he does it, lays his thighs flat to the bed and arches up again. He's crushing his hands and he almost doesn't care.

'Good,' Crowley says. 'That's a good boy. Stop squirming, and just feel it. If you take it like a man, we can move on. To bigger and better things.'

Sam shivers just at the idea. He's dazed, close to coming, closer every second. Somewhere outside himself he hears Crowley laugh, and then something clips closed tight around the root of his cock. 'No,' he gasps. 'I need - '

'I know what you need,' Crowley says, correcting him. 'Now hush, and let me work.'


Sam can barely feel his hands any more. The zipties feel too tight, and he can't seem to keep his weight up off them. He's dimly aware that his fingers are clumsily clenching and unclenching in the sheets. He should be using that, it's not much but it is something. He has to fight. Instead, he can barely move.

'Calm down, beautiful,' Crowley murmurs. He doesn't need to talk louder. He's still sitting in Sam's chair, and he feels so far away, but Sam's tuned to him like a radio. 'You're being good, pet. But you're not holding up your end of the bargain.'

'What?' Sam says, his voice sore and rasping. 'What more do you want from me?' He's taken everything. He's even - it even feels good, somehow. What else is there?

'I want,' Crowley says, getting up, something tucked into his hand, 'you to surrender.'

Sam swallows hard, and lays his head back down.

'That's better.' Crowley strokes his hand down Sam's hip and thigh, and tugs at the butt plug that's currently holding him open and stuffing him full. 'I've got a present for you.'

Whatever it is Crowley has in his hand it's nowhere near the size of what Sam already has in him, and he doesn't understand. So far, Crowley's presents have been bigger and bigger. Wider. Longer. Filling Sam up better, or touching him inside in places he didn't even realise existed. Pressure everywhere seems to be Crowley's thing, and fuck, but Sam can't seem to help rolling over for it. He's sweated through the sheets underneath him, he realises when he shakily levers himself higher, so Crowley can pull the plug free..

The thing he slips in to replace it hardly feels like anything. Sam whines through his teeth, feeling greedy and ashamed.

'Get on the floor,' Crowley says, stepping back. 'On your knees, Moose.' Sam rolls to the side of the bed without a second thought.

The floor hurts when Sam's knees hit it. He almost falls. 'Ah-ah, poppet. You can do better than that,' Crowley says. Sam straightens his back. His dick throbs, so full and ready to go, it hurts.

'Please,' he says again. Seems like all he's capable of saying right now. He hunches over, trying to balance. And then he feels it, movement - Crowley easing the slim toy in his ass a little out. 'No,' he moans. 'Don't. I -' and then pushing it firmly in. It's longer than Sam thought, curves just right to hit that shocky spot inside him, and Sam's knees crumple again. God, he's so weak.

'Don't fret,' Crowley says in a sugary, soothing voice. 'You'll like this, I promise.'

And then he goes back to the chair. Sam's confused, lightheaded from trying to breathe shallowly, and he struggles to push himself back up high enough to see where Crowley has gone.

'No, stay,' says Crowley. He pulls a hand out of his jacket pocket and waves something small and plasticky in Sam's direction. 'Your new friend and I have a trick to show you.' And then he hits a button, and the toy starts to buzz.

Sam's world disintegrates. It isn't that the vibrating thing in his ass somehow means he can't think, or that he's incapacitated by it or something, it's just that - it's this constant, tiny stutter of yesyesyesthisthisthis and he has no control over it, nothing, no matter how hard he arches his back, his tied-up, numb, cold fingers scrabbling to move far enough to touch it. No matter how much he tries to push his body into forcing the vibrator to move, because he wants it to move, God, yes, he wants to - he all of a sudden gets it, that the stretching, the burn, the ache before was the precursor, softening him up so that now every nerve in there is lit on fire. He wants this. He wants this - and that's what's breaking him down so hard.

'Shh, pet. Let Papa help,' says Crowley, and he must do something with his little remote control because if Sam thought his insides were on fire before they're melting now. He wrenches his head from side to side, trying so hard to keep control, to not plant himself face down and ass up and beg to be fucked. He wants deeper. He wants harder.

'Do you want to come?' Crowley asks. Sam's next breath is a sob. The vibrating stops, and Sam thinks he could cry, although he doesn't know if it's for loss or relief. 'Shall I let you? I think you've been good enough. I think maybe you understand now, don't you, pet? This is what you've needed all along. Come here.'

Sam shuffles around, goes to kneel at Crowley's feet because he never said anything about standing, and Crowley cards his hand roughly through Sam's hair.

Then he reaches down and unsnaps the cockring. Sam nearly comes on the spot, only the sharpness of the hand in his hair, tugging, to drag him back from the edge.

'Uh-uh,' Crowley says, and Sam shudders from overstimulation. Crowley pulls him until Sam's cheek is resting on his knee, and keeps petting his hair. 'Not till I tell you.'

Sam bites his lip to stop from begging. He can see that Crowley's hard in his perfectly pressed pants, this close, and fuck, but he wants - he doesn't even know what he wants, just that full feels good, that he could be fuller, and somehow that means he's straining against Crowley's hold on him, trying to nose closer to that bulge.

'What are you doing, pet?' Crowley asks softly. 'Something you want?'

Sam's cheeks burn, he's blushing, he knows it. He opens his mouth and pulls, trying to reach, to taste. Crowley tightens his grip.

'No. I'm tempted, believe me, but what makes you think I'd let you anywhere near my soft and dangly bits, darling? Delightful as I'm sure that would be, it's not part of our little bargain.'

Sam swallows hard, and forces himself to stop moving. Everything he can help, at least - he's still shaking like a leaf even though the vibrator has stopped, and he can't do anything about that. But his efforts seem to please Crowley.

'That's a good boy,' he says. 'Now listen. Feel -' and he turns the thing on again.

Sam already feels too much, that's his problem. It's just a tiny little motor, that's all, it runs on batteries for God's sake, and it's up his ass and why, why is that doing this to him? He's full and shaking and stretched out further than anyone should ever be, and this is when he's supposed to be getting free and stabbing Crowley in his eyeball. But instead he's moaning, his hips are working like he's fucking - or being fucked, a little voice suggests, and Sam's dick jerks just at the thought.

'- come,' Crowley says, yanking Sam up by his scalp at the same time as he clicks the remote up one more time.

Sam collapses like a puppet with the strings cut. Only Crowley's hand knotted in his hair keeps him upright. Sam comes, and comes, and comes, his body practically turning itself inside out, his lungs on fire. His fingers scrabble, numb and cold in the small of his back, for purchase that isn't there. And he feels empty. Crowley gets up while he's still in the throes of the aftershocks, easing Sam off his knees to lean against the chair instead, and pulling the vibrator out of him, and all Sam can do is breathe and want and hate himself, just a little bit more than he did before.

Crowley strokes his hair again, and steps away, with Sam's come all over his shiny black shoes. Sam muzzily pushes into the touch.

There's the soft sound of a laugh. 'Nice doing business with you, Moose.'


A week later, Crowley is trying to tidy up the mess his kingdom's got into while he was away living the high life with Dean - it's so hard to get good help these days - when he feels the tug of someone summoning him. Now, normally he'd brush off a plebeian little demand like this, but the blood that's calling him has the taste of Winchester.

So he deigns to let himself be pulled away from his extremely important business. A man must have some pleasures in life, after all.

'Evening, pet,' he says once the world has stopped moving around him. Unsurprisingly, it's only Sam glaring at him from over the edge of his (extremely kitsch) brass bowl. 'What can I do for you?'

'You said there was no hidden agenda,' Sam says, growling. It's a very quiet growl. Crowley sniffs, and realises that Dean is in the bunker too, either asleep or at least trying to be. 'You said it was a straightforward deal.'

Sam's agitated, worked up, all about the their little bargain of a week ago. Crowley lets a smile split his face. 'If you're asking if I did something to you, the answer is no,' he says. 'I said it would be easy, and it was. If you can't separate business from personal, that's not my problem.'

'You're lying.'

'Would that I were, darling. Practice helps me keep my edge. But for some reason I find myself compelled to tell you the truth. The only thing I did to you was make you come all over a very expensive pair of Italian leather loafers. Lingering … side effects, if you want to call them that, are all down to you.'

He steps forward, noting that they're in Sam's room, no devil's traps in sight although he's willing to bet the cunning little minx has something nasty set up outside the door to make sure he stays in here. Sam tries to eyeball him, stare him down, but Crowley just has to slide his hand over that diamond-cut hipbone and Sam's eyelids flutter shut for a moment.

'Poor Moose,' Crowley says, and it's hard not to gloat. 'I got you all hot and bothered, and now you don't know up from down, do you?'

'I hate you,' Sam whispers. 'I hate - I hate this.'

'But you want it, don't you.'

Sam glares and tries to move away, but it's as if he can't bring himself to relinquish the hand on his skin. Crowley feels the warmth of a closed deal fill his gut. Once an addict, always an addict. 'No,' Sam says, but he isn't fooling anyone.

Crowley strokes along the stitching of Sam's waistband, his belt, and the sleek skin above it, under his shirt. 'It's part of your nature,' he says. 'Nothing to do with me, poppet. They bred you as a vessel, but you threw your rider off, and now … now you've got an itch that nothing else will scratch.'

Crowley almost feels sorry for the big lummock, standing there quivering like a jelly. Not sorry enough to let him be, though. No. This … this is far too tasty a little treat to pass up.

'Our deal doesn't have to be a one-time offer, you know,' he says slyly, when it looks like Sam's about mid mental crisis. 'I'm prepared to renegotiate. For a valued customer.'

'Just tell me what you want,' says Sam. He's angry, not making eye contact. As if he's the one doing Crowley the favour, as if this isn't what he's wanted all along. 'State your terms, Crowley.'

Crowley always gets such a beautiful little frisson of delight when he closes a deal. 'You call me when you need me,' he says, ticking things off on his fingers, not even trying to pretend he hasn't had this little speech prepared. 'You let me decide what you need, and give it to you. This is our little secret - no talking. The first rule of Fight Club, and all that. You will be obedient to me, and I will be attentive to you, pet. Customer satisfaction will always be guaranteed, for a given value of satisfaction.'

It doesn't take much. Sam's cock is already at half-mast. The way he grabs Crowley's face and kisses him is just a formality.

It's a glorious formality, though. Sam kisses like a starving man, like Famine is on his tail. Crowley can't help but enjoy the moment, letting his little pet have a tiny sliver of control over this, before he pulls back.

'Do you need me now?' he asks Sam, as if he doesn't know the answer.

Sam looks at him mulishly, clearly not planning on answering. It's that Winchester stubborn streak rearing its head. 'Ah-ah-ah, that's not part of the deal,' Crowley says, waving a finger sternly. 'The deal is, you have to ask, remember.'

'I already called you,' Sam says. 'You're the one who's supposed to decide what I need, remember?.'

Crowley snorts. 'Touche. Well then, I think you need to be naked. Get that ugly bloody plaid off your body before it taints everything it touches.'

While Sam's busy stripping, Crowley thinks hard about an object that's been sitting on his desk for three days, tantalising him, and calls it to him. The leather lands heavy and reassuringly solid in his hand. Sam has his back to Crowley, folding his clothes up into a neat little pile, and the view is delicious. Crowley hefts his prize and praises his own impeccable judgement of these matters.

When he looks around the room, wondering about niceties like positions and props and scenarios, his eye lights on the narrow, full-length mirror on the wardrobe door, and oh, yes, life is very good sometimes. Life, and 1920s interior decorators. They may like beige but they do have excellent taste in things like scalloped-edge glassware. There's yet another hideous plaid shirt dangling mostly over the thing, though, so Crowley guesses it isn't Sam's favourite item of furniture, particularly given the tidy state of the rest of the place.

'You can fold that one up and put it away too, while you're at it,' he tells Sam, pointing at the shirt on the mirror when Sam looks at him. 'It's a disgrace, the way you keep this room,' he adds, just to watch Sam scowl.

When all the irritatingly extraneous bits of clothing have been removed, Crowley sits on the end of Sam's mattress and gestures in front of him with his free hand. 'Kneel,' he says. Sam's eyes darken immediately, he licks his lips, and Crowley knows what he's thinking about but no, still too dangerous. What demon in their right mind would let Sam Winchester's teeth anywhere near them? 'No,' he says. 'Face the mirror.'

When Sam looks up at him in the mirror, kneeling perfectly and quietly between Crowley's spread knees, it's a rush. No two ways about it. Probably Sam thinks this is some complicated part of an overarching bit of creative evil, and he's beating himself up about how his little addict's noggin is so bad at saying no, but, well. This is its own end. And if Crowley weren't enjoying watching him squirm like a worm on a hook, he might even tell Sam that.

He strokes at Sam's throat instead, feels the way he swallows. 'I have another present for you,' Crowley tells Sam softly. 'And you're going to wear it for me.'

He brings his other hand around and lets Sam see the collar, the heavy, thick black leather of it, finely stitched just like the shoes Sam ruined. The buckle at the front, the D ring at the back big enough for Crowley to hook a finger through. Sam shudders, but he doesn't move, and he doesn't break eye contact in the mirror. There's a fine dark blush starting to creep up his neck. Crowley cinches the collar tight right where he was stroking before, and gives Sam a second to adjust before he uses the ring to pull it even tighter against the cords of Sam's straining neck.

There's a tiny moment where he wonders if he judged this wrong, if he's going to have to show Sam the joys of erotic asphyxiation just the same as he had to show him the pleasures of penetration, but then Sam goes lax in his hold and his eyes roll back, and he breathes shallowly, like he's done this before. Crowley mentally pats himself on the back.

'Oh, you know this one, do you?' he says to Sam, easing up on the tension a little. 'You'd never had anything up your arse before but you're into choking? You're quite an interesting little conundrum, Moose.'

'No,' Sam rasps. 'Just. Shit like you always goes straight for my throat. Had kinda a lot of practice. Not really my thing.'

He said that about being fucked, too. Crowley has to resist the possessive urge to pull even harder. 'Well, let's see if we can't change that. I want you to touch yourself,' he says softly, bending down to speak into Sam's ear, making sure to keep their gazes locked. 'Do you know why shit like me always goes for your throat, pet?' He gently increases the pressure.

'I figured it's because you can't reach my eyes,' Sam manages to stutter out. Crowley has to admire that he can still retain his ability to be snarky. But he's not doing as he's told.

'Put your damn hand on your cock,' Crowley says, yanking the collar to put a bit of authority behind it. 'There's power in squeezing the life out of someone. It's seductive. You feel like you own them, like you can do anything with them. Air. Blood, Breath. I can stop all of them. I can stop you talking, feeling. If I hold on long enough I can kill you - but if I hold on well enough, I can control you. Look at yourself, pet,' Crowley says, nudging Sam's head up so that he has to look in the mirror again, look at himself fisting his hard cock. 'You're six and a half foot of muscle, trained to kill since birth, bred to carry the Devil himself - look at yourself and tell me you don't know why a thing like me would want to have you by the throat.'

Sam chokes a noise down. It isn't an unhappy one. Crowley puts yet more pressure on the collar and Sam's back bows, trying to accommodate it, trying to keep that sliver of airway open.

'You want it too, though, don't you poppet. Me, calling the shots. Taking those pesky decisions away from you. This is all you've ever wanted, and it's my pleasure -' he lets the word drag out, sees fluid dripping down Sam's cock and knowing with the certainty of someone who can feel the body in his hands starting to give in, '- to give it to you. I did promise satisfaction.'

Sam's breath is huffing and wheezing and it has to hurt, Crowley knows in an intellectual sort of way. It looks beautiful, though. Sam's red and blotchy, his fingers are shaking as he tries to stroke his dripping cock while his coordination is dropping, anoxia starting to take over, and his eyes are cloudy and vague in the mirror.

If Crowley times this right, that 1920s mirror is going to be covered in come and probably sweat too in a second, because the moment he lets go, Sam will slump forward onto it. If Crowley times this wrong, Sam will die.

He pulls hard again, and listens to the rattle in Sam's throat fade. 'Now, pet,' he purrs.

Life is very sweet, sometimes, Crowley thinks, as Sam's body locks up under his hands.