ruin

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/23614972.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Supernatural
Relationship: Crowley (Supernatural)/Dean Winchester
Characters: Crowley (Supernatural), Dean Winchester
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Somnophilia, Cuddling & Snuggling,
Married Couple, Demon Dean Winchester, Top Dean Winchester,
Bottom Crowley (Supernatural), Trans Crowley (Supernatural), Trans
Male Character
Language: English
Series: Part 10 of spn kink bingo 2020
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020
Stats: Published: 2020-04-12 Words: 677 Chapters: 1/1
 ruin
by hellhoundsprey

Summary

In contrast to his husband, Fergus has a functioning circadian rhythm.

2020 kink bingo square 19: cuddling

The mattress rocks and dips, to Fergus’ utter dismay.

He makes a strict point of keeping his eyes closed. Lets his husband settle in behind him
without a hint of him even trying to respect Fergus’ well-earned sleep.

Dean smells like whatever bar he just crawled back home from. Is all heated bare skin now
big-spooning Fergus and a cold mid-NYC-March hand finding his hip.

Fergus croaks a delirious noise.

Dean kisses the back of his neck. “You sleepin’?”

“Was,” corrects Fergus. Allows himself to just be held like this, be comfortable and warm
and safe and close. Gets nosed behind his ear, into his hairline.

Hum-sucked, “Go back to sleep, babe,” and Fergus pets at the hand now rubbing at his
shoulder, all-sweet.

At least the bastard doesn’t take the ring off for his bar adventures.

Not that it makes a difference. Not with a face like Dean’s.

Fergus Roderick MacLeod sighs deep and tired and sheltered as he relaxes under the blatant
affections. A weak consolation considering that he’ll have to be at the chancery at ungodly
hours. Fucking client who’s been pestering them for weeks now. He can’t wait for it to be
over, to stop climbing up some arrogant prick’s ass and go back to being the arrogant prick.

God, he misses that.

Dean’s hips shift and drag and there are sighs from him as well. He’s got Fergus hugged tight
now and chews on him all absently while his dick begins to fatten on sheer instinct, sheer
habit.

For Christ’s sake.

“Jus’ keep sleepin’,” soothes Dean who is an asshole but also the asshole MacLeod got to put
a ring on; who knows him too well and sometimes they share that single brain cell.

Fergus love-hates it.

Dean keeps mouthing at him like he’s starving, maybe dreaming of something good to eat.
Grinds against Fergus’ ass, rides the boxer-clad crack of it until he peels that cotton off and
down. Skin on skin and that dick’s already wet, and Fergus huffs, compromised.

He tilts his hips out just a bit. Just so Dean can rub off on him better. Feels himself getting
hot with it, how his animal brain recognizes what’s happening despite the fog of sleep. Feels
that oh-so-familiar throb between his legs and his body is so fucking tingly and heavy.
Dean gets a hand between them to grab at his own dick, hold it steady to rub with purpose.

Purrs all low.

Fucking heartbreak on two legs.

Drops his mouth to Fergus’ ear and bites at that, too. Nearly spears him dry with how quick
his movements escalate and Fergus’ libido seems astonishingly okay with that. Old enough to
know better, old enough to not give a shit; a daily struggle.

And Fergus keeps laying there, all slack and sleepy, because that’s what both Dean and him
want. Because while he can be docile, he prefers not to be, or at least have a valid excuse.
Dean knows that. Plays him by ear like that, every goddamn time.

Fergus’ rotten soul cat-stretches all comfortably at Dean wrestling his hand into the non-
existent gap between mattress and bedframe. Too many hiding spots (or shoved-it-there-and-
never-remembered spots) for lube and toys in this goddamn house. Good thing neither of
them has big circles of friends to entertain.

That dick is back and unmistakably angling in now, slick, and Fergus’ feels his body give.
Feels his primal instincts flinching half-awake, how his asshole tenses and fights until it
can’t, not around that girth, that weight.

Dean groans all uninhibited, hand back on Fergus’ hip now and stuffing himself deep. Has
his messy happy trail kissing at Fergus’ tailbone too soon and Fergus feels fucking boneless,
like he’s bursting and burning and drowning. Floating.

Dean grinds them together in shallow, deliberate movements. Hum-sighs his pleasure and
buries his face in the back of Fergus’ neck, repositions his hand to blindly grab for Fergus’,
intertwines them and Fergus grabs him back. Of course he does.

They tremble, together.

Hears, “Sweet thing,” and it’s all love.

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