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Much hotter than narcotics anonymous

Summary:

Smut. Set during S9 when Crowley is the Winchesters' prisoner.
Sam fucks Crowley.
Blood play.
Mentions a Kevin Tran headcanon briefly

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The first thing Sam noticed as she entered Crowley’s cell was the smell of fresh blood. It had been years since she had been clean of her addiction, after the cage, it wasn’t even something that crossed her mind anymore, and yet, she could pick out the smell so distinctly, a metallic tang to the air, a rottenness that made her salivate, and her saliva taste like salt. Like Ruby. 

Kevin must’ve been in this morning, although she hadn’t noticed him going. She usually noticed the sound of his footsteps, even when she was distracted, they rung out, distinctive, softer than Dean’s, a reminder that she was not the only one who chose to visit their prisoner. Perhaps she had forgotten. That seemed to be happening a lot lately.

She’d walked in on him once, months ago. Crowley had stared at her, pleading, eyes wide and terrified, and Kevin had looked up, as carefree as ever, as she froze in shock, processing the scene. It was obviously private, and she had had her fair share of moments in the past where she had chosen to turn a blind eye, seamlessly moving past embarrassments. But this was different. Kevin was shameless, his eyes emotionlessly boring into hers, Crowley’s flesh caught between his teeth, his face smeared with blood. As she turned to leave, she heard Crowley’s voice call out, “Moose, please.” But she was gone, the door closed behind her. Sam never spoke to Kevin about it. And Kevin didn’t speak to Sam.

Today, however, the cell contained only a disgruntled Crowley. A Crowley who got significantly less disgruntled the moment he looked at Sam’s face, although he was loath to show it. “Back so soon Samantha?” He sneered, “are things with your brother really that boring? I myself always did find him a bit tedious. And yet, I can’t help but think about poor little Dean, out there pouting on his own. He never could function without you.” He strained against his collar as the force of Sam’s body crashed into him, knife at his throat, their faces inches from each other. His eyes flickered red for an instant as she hissed “shut up” at him, in a low voice. He felt himself fall instantly silent. There was something about it, about her, that was impossible not to give in to. 

Ah yes. The blood.

Sam straddled him, her weight hurting him, his injuries from Kevin still fresh. But he did not flinch. She sat back, flicking her hair out of her eyes, and pushing up her top, to reveal her enormous forearm. Muscular and veiny . He could feel her heart beating in her chest, imagined the blood running across her skin. His fantasies merged with reality as she dragged the knife against her skin, beads of blood breaking through the surface, droplets running down. She smirked as she felt his dick harden beneath her, but he didn’t notice. His eyes were following a droplet of blood as it fell to the floor. Wasted. Teasingly, she coated a finger in blood and held it up to his lips. It took all the self control in the world to not bite it off. He sucked, hard, savouring the taste. When she pulled away, he gave her a warning look. “Sam…” he said. But he fooled neither of them. Sam smirked once more as she responded, “why Crowley? Is something wrong?” If he had been a lesser man, Crowley would’ve whimpered. Sam coated her fingers, much more generously this time, and fed him once more, shifting in her seat as he sucked on her. She was far less ashamed than he was to get what she wanted, and it only took a moment before her hands were holding his head, her lips pressed hard against his, teeth and tongues colliding as she kissed him ferociously, her hips grinding against his dick. She could already taste her blood in his mouth, and Crowley bit her tongue, hard, blood pooling from the puncture. He moaned slightly in appreciation. Her hand found its way to his jaw and she held him roughly, as she withdrew and forced her forearm into his mouth. He gagged slightly, and bit down, clamping on, drinking as much as he could from the shallow wound. Her face screwed up in pleasure. The feeling of his rough face against her skin, the tongue licking her, inside her, tasting her, just made her want more. One handed, Sam undid the fastenings on her jeans, and pushed them down, touching herself in the process. Crowley slid the knife from her pocket, and withdrew his face, only briefly, his focus careful, as he made a knick on the side of her neck. He put his handcuffed hands behind her head and pulled her towards him, passionately kissing and drinking from the side of her neck. His pace slowed, varying, as he traced a droplet, flat side of his tongue making her wince as he flicked it over the cut. She freed his dick from his trousers, and touched them both with her hand, and he kept drinking. She was dizzy, possibly light headed, she wasn’t sure, her senses were blurred, focused only on the feeling of his dick against hers, of his mouth against his neck. After a time, Crowley’s lips moved away from her neck, and he began to kiss her on the mouth, more slowly this time, although none the less passionately. All pretences of being coy dropped, he teased her, pulling away, nipping at her skin, at her ears. His hands buried themselves in her hair, nails against her scalp. 

He bit on her earlobe, sucking a droplet of blood. “Let me suck you off.” he whispered. And withdrew to look at her desperate face. She stood up, without comment, one knee resting on the chair between his legs, and pushed her dick into his mouth, roughly and without regard for his comfort. His teeth dragged against it as she shoved it to the back of his mouth, and her face flinched in pain, but she didn’t care. She felt the roof of his mouth against her as thrusted against his throat, her body caught up in the pleasure of it, her mind taking in the picture of him, the king of hell, sucking her off, with her blood staining his lips. She fucked harder, faster, enjoying the pleasure of it, the sensation of it. Noises escaped her lips and echoed in the large cell. Crowley’s hands found their way to base of her dick, controlling her movements, the extra touch a welcome sensation. “Fuck, Crowley,” she muttered. He looked up at her smugly, murmuring in response, the noise garbled by her dick in his mouth. The vibration sent pleasure coursing through her body and she threw her head back, mouth agape, and let out a choked cry. 

They stopped momentarily, and she kissed him, hard, tasting herself in his mouth. He smiled at her adoringly, the wonder that was Sam Winchester, determined and desperate. She undid his chains, his hands still cuffed, and threw him down hard into the centre of the devil’s trap. He sat up on his knees, waiting. Sam removed the remainder of their trousers, and grabbed the knife, making eye contact with him, making sure he watched as she stood to full height, and cut herself once more, her hand bleeding as she coated her dick with blood. She wanted him to feel in inside him, from all directions. She got down behind him, and lifted his head slightly, giving him her hand to feed from, as she would’ve an animal. Her other hand guided her dick towards his ass. The king of hell did not earn her preparation. Once again, the pain seared as she entered, and she let out a deep guttural noise as her brain blurred the lines between pleasure and pain. She fucked him mercilessly, caught in between the sensation of the blood and the pleasure, they both lost all comprehension of the situation, only the primal drive of desire keeping the rhythm of her thrusting consistent. She wrapped her hand around his dick as she fucked him, moving in time with her movements, the entire world around them had stopped existing, as moment by moment they let out synchronised cries. Sam’s eyes rolled back into her skull, Crowley’s legs trembled beneath her. If they said words, they were incomprehensible, sentiments of ‘more’ or ‘faster’ or ‘fuck’ muttered meaninglessly. When they both came, Sam cried out, long and hard, filling Crowley’s ass, with heat, as he came across her hand. She collapsed backwards, her bare ass touching the cold of the stone, as she came to, returning to her body, to her consciousness, to her mind where all of her thoughts could bother her. Crowley too began to regain his composure, a certain distance reappearing as he made a snide remark about their activities. “Shut up.” Sam looked over at him, contentedly tired. “Get dressed.” She said, pointlessly, as she put on her own clothes, and wiped the floor, making sure to mark over the areas of the devil’s trap that they might’ve smudged. Uncharacteristically, Crowley made no attempt to escape as she chained him back down to his chair. Before she left, Sam leaned over, pricked the tip of her finger and let him suck the droplet, before smoothing down her hair, pecking him lightly on the lips, and strolling out, as though nothing had ever happened.