T for language and gore.

I don't own.

Framed in the doorway, the raging storm at his back, Dean considered the packed club. The crowd's eyes flashed an empty, hungry black in the unsteady lighting as demons pulverized their hips against each other and attempted to devour their twisted souls through their mouths. Hunters instinct twisted with the influence of the First Blade clutched in his hand, and for a moment he allowed himself to fall prey to a fantasy of eviscerated torsos and echoing screams and the heat of lifeblood pouring past the Blade and over his hands.

He tore himself from the thought and stepped into the club. The door slammed shut behind him, drawing the demons attention. His name spread through the crowd like a wave, rising in volume and then falling away again. The demons surrounding him drew away.

Ignoring them, he moved through the crowd. Now one of their own – a thought that both made him choke on bile in the back of his throat and pumped a burning excitement through his veins – they left him alone. He wasn't sure whether that was Crowley's influence, or the Blade's, since even the King of Hell had been hesitant to approach Cain. Of course, Cain had been the Father of Murder and a Knight of Hell far longer than Crowley had walked the Earth. The current King didn't concede Dean the same respect. Against his will, the memory raised a smirk.

Crowley paused as they walked away from the burning house, bending to pluck a daffodil from the dead demon's garden. "Lucifer supporters, Abaddon supporters," he murmured, tracing the delicate edge of a yellow petal. "Am I good enough for no one?"

Rolling his eyes, Dean grasped Crowley's arm and tugged. The King of Hell acceded, trailing after Dean, still staring at the cursed flower.

"Do you see it now, Squirrel? How your shower sex pales in comparison to the difficulties of hell?" Crowley whispered, stopping again.

Dean dropped his hold on him in disgust. "Are you done?" He snapped, folding his arms over his chest. Over Crowley's shoulder, he could see the house burning, hear the wails of sirens growing louder. Though the firefighters would find nothing but a burnt body with no sign of murder, years of experience pushed Dean to get away before they arrived.

"You're the only one who can nearly understand." Crowley whispered to the flower, not bothering to look at Dean as he addressed him."So close, Dean, and yet, so far." He glanced up, derision battling with esteem in his gaze. "A candle to the sun. A house fire, as it were." He added slyly, as Dean wrinkled his nose at the scent of scorched plastic. "You've come so far from what you were, Dean."

Dean glared at him, his eyes flashing black. "Shove it up you ass, you demonic son of a bitch."

"It gets me all tingly when you talk like that." Grin growing, Crowley plucked a saffron petal and let it drift to the concrete. "He loves me," another petal floated away in the breeze, "he loves me not."

Alone at the bar, Crowley was staring at his glass, watching as the ice melted. Around him was the only place where the demons didn't crowd. They circled around, but none dared cross the line between them and their King. Dean cared nothing for borders drawn by fear. Sliding into one of the empty seats beside Crowley, Dean met his gaze steadily when Crowley looked over at him, lips twisted apart to say something. Apparently Crowley had been expecting someone else though, for the snarl fell from his face.

Ever since Crowley's six-six-six number had flashed up on his phone with only the name of the club and the time, Dean had been expecting mockery and derision. Another task, another meat-suit to sink the Blade into, perhaps. Not the melancholy air that the King wore like a death shroud.

"I didn't think you would come."

The phone in his jean's pocket suddenly felt too heavy as Dean thought of all the text he had left unread from Crowley.

Part of Dean wanted to hand out a cutting quip to break the way that Crowley watched him. Slipping the blade into the holster hanging on his hip, Dean accepted the drink from the demon behind the bar. As he took the beer from her, their fingers brushed, and she flinched away. Use to that reaction, Dean ignored her and turned back to Crowley. "I didn't think I would either."

"I'm glad you did."

Dean didn't say anything, just dropped his gaze away. Crowley's tone had changed ever since Dean had woken with black eyes. No, Dean thought, studying the dark grain of the wood, ever since he had taken on the Mark of Cain, and the demon had known that Dean would one day wake, cursed. Plunged into the demonic world where the beliefs of his humanity and the intolerance of his father didn't stand, Dean found himself looking more and more to Crowley to teach him how to live. And the King had seemed delighted to help him, always directing him to victims when the Blade wished to wrought destruction, handling the dirty work when Dean himself grew tired of always having his hands in gore.

As the demon screamed through the gag over his mouth, Crowley materialized in front of Dean. Running his gaze over the bloody, skinless mess on Dean's table, Crowley smirked. The smirk fell away as he turned his attention to Dean."Look at you, kitten." Crowley all but purred, reaching over the trapped demon to ease the switchblade out of Dean's grip. It took a minute for Crowley to slowly uncurl Dean's fingers from around the hilt, but they eventually came. "You're exhausted. I forget how... human, Knights of Hell can be."

Drawing back with the knife, Crowley licked a trail of blood off his finger. "I'll finish here. Sit back and enjoy the show."

Dean stepped back, flexing his fingers. They felt as if they were frozen in place, still wrapped around the knife. He didn't know how many hours he had spent carving away at the demon. Pulling himself up, Dean perched on the edge of the empty table beside him. Hooking his feet on the bar connecting the tables legs, he rested his elbow on his knees and his chin in his bloodstained hands. "I should have realized you were an exhibitionist."

With a look in his direction that could only be described as flirty, Crowley resumed Dean's work, stripping the last of the Lucifer supporter's skin from his abdomen. There was something – hot was the word that sprung to mind, and Dean stamped down on it so hard he nearly fell from where he perched – in watching his King work.

Crowley looked up, concern flaring in his eyes. "I've let you work far too long if you're falling all over yourself."

Sliding off the table, Dean picked up another knife. "On the contrary, I suddenly feel much more energetic."

Head tilting, Crowley considered him for the remaining length of the song. Dean let him, trying to focus away from the King of Hell and instead on the low, moaning voice of the singer. To focus on the way that the flickering lights caught and held for only an instant on the curves of the bar tender, hitting hip and breast and lip. From the corner of his eye, he could see Crowley's fingers tapping against the side of his glass. As the song swelled into the last chorus, his fingers stilled.

Dean ripped his gaze away, staring at the unopened beer in his hands. Crowley understood him better than anyone ever had. He understood the urges of the Blade. Understood that not all of Dean's murderous rage was from the Blade. That part of him had loved the time he had spent as Alistair's apprentice. Somehow, the demon who had worked to prevent the apocalypse only to save his own ass, knew Dean better than his own brother, his own guardian angel. Better than Dean himself.

The touch on his arm made Dean start, but he didn't pull away. Crowley's fingers brushed over Dean's limb, tracing the lines of his new tattoos. Crowley had remained silent as he watched Dean's skin grow to be covered with marks, but Dean could feel the weight of his gaze every time that he had caught sight of a new tattoo. The demon's fingers were gentle as he slowly traversed the newly laid map of Dean's life in ancient symbols and long dead languages.

"Enough of this fucking bullshit!" Dean shoved the demon away, pushing Crowley up against the chain link fence. The demon's scotch spilled over Dean's shirt, and with his too strong senses the demon's expensive cologne was all he could smell.

Crowley tilted his head up to him, lips pursing. "Getting as frustrated with this game as I am, lover?"

Eyes narrowing, Dean shoved the First Blade up against Crowley's chest. "Stop it. Stop," He searched for a word to explain Crowley's actions. "flirting." He spat it out as if it had burned him.

The demon's hand wrapped around Dean's where he was holding the Blade against him. "Come on Dean. Let it all go. Let Daddy's issues and all your expectations for your life fade away. Don't be afraid to explore it all. Let that pride flag fly." Crowley's thumb rubbed small circles into Dean's skin as he leered up at him.

Dean's forearm pressed tighter into Crowley's throat. Still the demon didn't shut up. The urge to press his lips to the Crowley's and swallow the words pouring from the demon's mouth so he didn't have to hear him hit him hard.

Shocked at the thought, how easily it had come, Dean pulled away, and with his new-found powers materialized elsewhere. Anywhere. Far away from Crowley and the thoughts he brought.

"They're beautiful."

Dean shrugged one shoulder, not breaking contact. "They're meaningful."

Crowley sighed. It was the same sigh he done when Dean was limited by his humanity and couldn't see the world he saw now. "They're beautiful because of their meaning. Like scars."

Dean risked a look from the corner of his eye. One side of Crowley's lips turned upwards as his fingers settled on the ancient cuneiform that meant family. His eyes roved over the tattoos, his lips slowly moving silently with words that weren't English as he read the tattoos. Finally, his gaze flicked up to Dean. "What are you trying to do with them?"

"The hell you talking about?" That was hitting a little to close for comfort.

Crowley's fingers still rested on the cuneiform. "Family." He whispered so low that if Dean hadn't been so close, he never would have heard him. "I mean, darling," Crowley continued, his voice meant for Dean now, "are you trying to lose you old life in the chaos? Anti-possession tattoo, your feathery friend's brand, Mark of Cain? What are you trying to forget? Because this..." Crowley tapped his finger against the cuneiform. "Means you're trying to remember somethings."

Thumbing the hilt of the First Blade at his side, Dean's gaze skittered away. He could feel the heat of Crowley at his side, the way his fingers brushed over the tattoo on his arm. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck, made him too aware of his heartbeat and the pulse of the song.

The stench of liquor burnt his nose and made his eyes water as Dean pushed his way into Crowley's office. The demon was slumped over his desk, a half empty bottle of rotgut clutched in his hand. Dean stepped around the disemboweled secretary and pulled the bottle from his king's hand. Fuck, when had he started thinking of Crowley as his king?

Crowley groaned, opening demonic red eyes. Seeing Dean, he fished with one hand and caught hold of the belt wrapped around his leather clad hips. Dean's fingers twitched on the First Blade, but he didn't make a move when Crowley pulled him closer. Burying his face into Dean's stomach, the demon muttered something intelligible.

"The fuck are you going on about?" Dean demanded. "Fuck." he snarled when he saw the red stained needle on the floor. "I thought you kicked the stuff."

Crowley's shoulders shook, and against his better judgment, Dean placed a hand on his king's back. "I just wanted..." Crowley sobbed.

Circling his eyes heavenward for the umpteenth time that day, Dean asked, "Wanted what?"

The demon was sniveling against his stomach now. "D-double digits." He pulled away, but didn't release his hold on Dean, just readjusted it to dig his fingers into Dean's hipbone. "I never wanted to be a d-demon. You." He looked up, and Dean was suddenly uncomfortable with the implications of another time, another place where Crowley could tug him close and look up with demonic eyes and talk about length. "You're the only one who understands me."

Torn between yanking out of Crowley's hold and pulling the demon up to hold, Dean stood still. "Stop it." Eyeing the needle, Dean shook his head and ran a hand down Crowley's back.

"You're the only p-person who can understand me."

"Shut up Crowley."

Crowley's hand snaked around to rest on the far side of Dean's jaw, fingers brushing up Dean's jugular and smoothing over the stubble. "Darling," Crowley breathed. "You've been through so much you never deserved."

Swallowing hard, Dean looked at him. Really looked at him. Burning demon and human vessel. Crowley was barely lit form in the dark, but Dean could see his signature squint as he treated Dean to the same scrutinization. He found himself wondering if that was from a life before hell or just a trait that Crowley had taken on when he had possessed his vessel. Part of him really hoped that was Crowley, the man that he had once been.

With one hand still on Dean's arm, Crowley's other slid up to palm his cheek, his fingers tenderly tracing the line beneath his eyes. His voice was barely audible over the pounding music. "You're the only demon whose eyes are more handsome when they're human."

Dean wasn't sure who closed the distance between them, whose mouth caught the others first. Their teeth clicked as they adjusted to each other, and their mouths softened against one another's, tongues slowly tracing and exploring each other. Dean's hand left the Blade, moving to encircle the back of Crowley's neck. The taste of Crowley played over his tongue; expensive whiskey and cinnamon, a hint of sulfur and the cold certainty of blood.

He didn't know why. He didn't know how. Dean just knew that this felt right, and lately, nothing had.

Do you guys like leather wearing, tattooed, Knight of Hell demon!Dean? I'm considering expanding this and exploring more of him and Crowley's trials as the King of (unappreciative) Hell. So if you want more, please let me know. Crowley and I love it when people get vocal, if ya, know what we mean. ;D

Daffidols btw, stand for rebirth and new beginnings, and unrequited love. So you know, Crowley speaks in flower code.