Chapter One...

Castiel gently ran his fingers along Dean's cheek, shaking his head as he took in the state of the other man. Dean was ill, in a way that was just beyond Castiel's comprehension. He was pale, weak with fever and dehydration. His veins were showing through his intensifying translucent skin, and the blood pumped black with a poison that pulsed through his veins.

Only hours before, Dean had been at his strongest, but one bite from a vamp with a weird infection had him crumbling. Dean's skin shimmered with a coating of beads of sweat, though its chilling effects brought no relief to his fever-stricken body. Dean tossed his head back and forth on the pillow beneath his head, giving a tiny forlorn wail of discomfort. This was the man he'd given everything up for, and now - Castiel being hopelessly powerless to help him - he felt his heart breaking.

Bobby stood behind Castiel, who was seated in a chair beside the bed Dean occupied in the panic room. His eyes moved from Dean's pain-stricken face to Castiel's tense shoulders riddled with worry.

"There's nothin' in any of my research about vampers gittin' sick... Or even passin' it on to humans... But I think it's safe to say... We best just... Make Dean comfortable..." Bobby said softly, hating to have to be the one to deliver this news. Dean was like a son to him, and it made him sick to his stomach to see him like this.

Dean's body was shaking and wracked with pain, going in and out of consciousness. The end didn't seem close, but it certainly didn't look far off; Castiel swallowed uneasily and closed his eyes, nodding. He rubbed the back of his neck and then wiped his hand over his face. He hadn't moved from Dean's side since they'd come back from the hunt, and he didn't intend to take his eyes off Dean for even one second.

"Yes, I... I will make sure he is comfortable." Castiel's gruff voice was strained with sorrow and suffering unlike any Bobby had ever heard from the angel. He adjusted his hat nervously, and then reached out, giving Castiel's shoulder a squeeze. Castiel tensed and cringed a little at the would-be-comforting action, causing Bobby to feel even worse than he had before.

Bobby sighed and pulled his hand back, glancing to the open doorway of the panic room where Sam stood, leaning in the frame with his arms folded across his chest. Sam's eyes were dark, his face, however, was expressionless. He couldn't feel the grief the others did, or the overwhelming sadness. And as much as that scared Bobby, he didn't let it get the better of him. He simply watched as the soulless shell of Sam heaved a sigh of his own and turned away from the sight, walking back up the stairs.

"Leave us..." Castiel said quietly, his shoulders going slack as he watched Dean work through another fit of pain into stillness.

Bobby grit his teeth and nodded, leaving Castiel and Dean alone for the time being. He figured it best that he just let Castiel be there for Dean.

Castiel knew Dean in ways that no one else did, loving Dean far beyond what anyone else was capable of. He leaned over Dean's bed, his lips pressing gently to his forehead as he pet Dean's sweat-dampened hair. Dean's throat bobbed with a hard swallow and his glassy eyes slowly forced themselves open as he came back to consciousness. He looked up at Castiel; his chapped lips parted with a struggling breath. For a moment, eyes rolled back into Dean's head as Castiel tilted his head, leaning closer as he noticed Dean was trying to speak. He paid close attention intently as his eyes searched Dean's face with a hope that he could possibly pull through.

"Cas... Cas,... I-I-I need... water..." Dean barely choked out a whisper, his dry tongue sticking to his teeth and the roof of his mouth as he tried to speak.

Castiel nodded quickly, his hand moving immediately to grab one of the bottles of water from the floor beside his chair. After opening the bottle, he carefully slipped his entire hand under Dean's head, cradling it in his palm in a way that conveyed how precious Dean was to him. Dean parted his lips and drank. Castiel poured the water slowly into his mouth, letting Dean consume as much as he could before sudden pains stabbed his gut, making him cough and sputter for Castiel to stop. The water spilled from his mouth out onto his chin and shirt; the fluid was tinged pink and black, causing Castiel to weaken in spirit. His bright eyes were downcast as he pulled the bottle backward. His face was stricken with fear and his throat constricted as he fought back a floodgate of emotions at the sight of blood spilling from the corner of Dean's mouth. Each black spiderweb-like vein showing on Dean's skin was pulsing more than it had been five minutes before.

Castiel would have to be a fool to not see it, and - for a moment - he wished he was a fool so he could keep on believing that Dean could beat this. The infection was taking hold of everything Dean had left, and squeezing the life from his body like water from a sponge. Castiel's eyes were growing misty as he watched Dean take a few deep, shaky breaths. Dean dissolved into a fit of coughing, allowing more poisoned blood to slip out of his mouth onto his lips. Castiel did his best not to let his resolve break; he ignored the very human needs he had to cry, to scream, to run away. He moved the pad of his thumb over Dean's mouth and wiped away the blood, smudging it off the skin onto his pants.

"Dean..." Castiel's voice was heavy with pain for the other man, the sweetest sort of sadness lighting his eyes. The way the single syllable fell off his tongue and rolled into the air spoke of everything the two had been through together. And "everything" was meant from the moment Castiel's hand had wrapped around Dean's arm, dragging him up from the pit, to this moment passing between them right now.

Dean managed to crack a small smile, having wondered when he'd finally be unable to outrun Death. Had he known that he would die slowly and painfully in front of one of the few people he ever really cared about, he'd have just... Dean's thoughts trailed off as he furrowed his brows, looking at Castiel. Just what...? He was weak. There was no way he would have intentionally chosen to leave all of this behind... "I never... wanted you... to see me die..." Dean panted as he used what little strength he had to turn his palm upward and reach out for Castiel.

Castiel's fingers slid around Dean's hand, all ten of them closing in a warm and comforting grip around Dean's own. He shook his head at Dean, tears that had been waiting in the wings slipped out onto the main stage, and downward to the floor below. Dean had always been crazy enough to think that Castiel wouldn't see his final moments. Dean couldn't hide anything from him; he'd never be able to.

Castiel had forgotten to breathe for a moment and took a sudden shuddering breath. "Don't talk... You need to save your energy..." Castiel chided lightly, his eyes moving from the floor to Dean's face as he squeezed Dean's hand gently.

Dean let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head right back at the fallen angel. It was obvious that Castiel didn't want to act like he'd given up hope, but Dean knew the other man better than that. He knew that Castiel was an extremely honest and realistic person who had just barely managed to learn when it might be a good time to lie, and he wasn't very good at lying when he did. His beautiful blue eyes betrayed his heart's true feelings every time.

"For what...? I'm dying, Cas... Just... Lemme get this out while I can..." he rasped firmly as his eyes slipped shut again and his brows furrowed. For Castiel's sake, he had to be strong now. He took in a long, shaky breath, and then, opening his eyes once more, he looked to Castiel. "I'll always... think of you... Cas... As the one... You saved my ass so many times..."

Castiel lowered his head, shuddering with a weak sob. He knew what this was - he knew what Dean was doing - and he wasn't ready for it. Realist or not, Castiel wouldn't be able to mentally prepare himself for the day that Dean would pass away right in front of him – especially not like this. He couldn't simply sit there and take it in. He'd never felt more human than he did right then.

"No Dean... Don't say goodbye... Don't do this... Keep fighting... Hang in there... We'll cure you. I promise... We'll find something..." Castiel insisted, plowing right over Dean's attempt at a farewell speech. His monotone wasn't enough to hide the fact that he didn't believe his own words. He wanted to believe them, but he couldn't.

Dean shook his head and pulled at Castiel lightly, encouraging him to move closer and so Castiel did. He moved onto the little bed with Dean and held him close, rubbing his back and softly kissing his forehead and cheeks. Part of him hoped this was enough to get him sick too, then maybe he wouldn't have to live for very long without Dean.

"Castiel... Let me... Please... I don't wanna die without telling you..." Dean said softly, his eyes fluttering shut.

Castiel gripped Dean tight, squeezing his eyes shut as he willed Dean to hold off, to keep fighting a while longer, to stay with him. But he could feel - even now - that Dean's light was leaving him. Dean's breathing was getting increasingly shallow. "Dean... I..." Castiel's voice cracked and broke with a soft sob as he ran his fingertips across Dean's skin. Dean's fever had dissolved away in moments and given way to chilling cold.

Dean was shivering and his skin practically icy to the touch. He smiled sadly, pressing his forehead against Castiel's collarbone. Dean's body was too weak for even his teeth to chatter.

"You probably already... know... but Cas... I do... ya' kno'..." Dean fumbled around with the words that he knew he wanted to say but really couldn't bring himself to.

Castiel kissed his forehead and nodded.

"I do know, Dean." He whispered against Dean's sweat-slicked brow, holding him close while he did his best to keep Dean warm with his body's heat.

Dean coughed a little, gritting his teeth as his bones surged with pain again. He let loose a low groan, going rigid in Castiel's arms as he went into another brief fit of agonizing pain. When the moment passed, he was panting for breath, his lungs barely filling with air. His vision was beginning to go dark.

"And I can just... go in peace... cause dying like this sure as hell beats the countless other alternatives..." Dean's voice was quiet - barely deciphered - but Castiel understood. Dean was trying to be profound and sweet, trying to keep sarcasm from his voice in his last moments. He had to be open and honest now - better late than never. Castiel shuddered a little and shook his head.

"Just... stop talking Dean... Stop talking and stay with me... A little while longer..." Dean didn't reply, his chest was no longer bobbing with shallow breaths.

Castiel looked down and saw Dean's eyes had gone dull and lifeless. He was gone. The cry that left Castiel's body was inhuman and it tore through the air like a knife. He clung to Dean, holding him close as he sobbed and wailed, burying his face in Dean's shirt.

"You're all I have... All of it... has been for you... Don't go damn it all... Don't go..." Castiel protested between hiccuping sobs, letting his tears flow freely as he laid there and held Dean in his arms...

Castiel wasn't willing to let go just yet...

…

Bobby watched Sam as he paced the floor. The skies outside were darkening slowly as the sun set behind the horizon and Dean's life was ticking away downstairs. This whole situation was just too much to take in. Really, it was.

Sam took a few shaky breaths and shook his head, glancing at Bobby who had taken a seat behind his desk with an untouched glass of whiskey in his hand and a blank sort of look on his tired features. The sound of Castiel's wailing was all the sign they had needed to know that Dean had passed on. Neither Sam, nor Bobby had the courage to go down there and disturb the fallen angel at this time. He had every right to cling and to mourn. Dean had been everything Castiel lived for, and now that was being ripped away from him just like his grace had been.

Sam knew he had to do something. Instinct told him he couldn't simply sit back and do nothing. In all his memories, he knew that he should be grief-stricken and jumping up to do something to save his brother. He wondered briefly it maybe he could save Dean; often times they would save each other in the past, why not now? He took a moment to consider his options, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully. He glanced at Bobby briefly, then he headed for the front door.

"Where you goin', boy!" Bobby called out, though he wasn't rushing to do much to stop Sam. Right then, he doubted Sam even gave a shit that his brother was dead.

Which, of course, Sam didn't really feel it deep down, but he knew he should. He decided he was going to do something. Anything. He would even come back from Hell and track down Dean and Bobby; he didn't particularly want to watch what little he had in the world fall apart. Soulless or not, that just didn't fit his idea of practical. He needed Dean alive and Bobby sane. Then he considered Castiel, who - without Dean - would have fallen from grace for practically no reason at all. No no no - none of this would do. His gut told him that he had to fix this. The raid on the vampire nest had been his idea, and now he had to put the situation right.

"Out! I need some air!" Sam called back as he walked out the door, slamming the paneling shut behind him. He walked over to the Impala, opening the trunk to pull out his bag and dig through the innards until he found the box he was looking for. The cool wood felt more like lead in his hands. He frowned and opened the wooden lid, checking to make sure everything was there, before snapping it shut and walking deep into the junkyard. He found a decent secluded place, surrounded by gutted cars and rubble. He fell to his knees and dug a hole. Cupping his hands together, he moved the earth as quickly as he could, placing the box in the ground and covering the shape completely. He stood and slapped his hands together to rid them of as much dirt as possible. He looked around, gritting his teeth. It occurred to him that he didn't have a soul to bargain with, but he would cross that bridge when he got to it. For now, he would make each step up as he went along.

"Come on!" Sam shouted at the empty space around him, turning every which way and praying (ironically enough) that a crossroads demon would show up.

Exactly what would make any demon show up to make a deal with him?-well, that was not really important. Sam simply wanted one to come. If anything, he had the knife; he could always catch them, threatening them into helping... Right...?

Sam waited for what felt like the longest seven minutes of his life - since seven minutes in heaven with Sally Simmons in the sixth grade (she had head gear and thought Sam was "freaky" so it was more like seven minutes in hell) - and then started to give up hope. He knew that the chances of a demon showing up to make a deal with him would be slim, but it never hurt to try, did it? He sighed and was about to turn to walk back toward Bobby's house in defeat but found his path blocked.

There was Crowley, dressed in a black suit with the smuggest of grins on his face and, frankly... in Sam's way. And he was laughing. Sam would have been offended by the laughter if it weren't for the fact that, well... he pretty much deserved it. I mean, let's be realistic here - Sam didn't exactly have much to offer a crossroads demon these days.

"Now this... This is hilarious..." Crowley said as he slowly began to circle around Sam. Crowley's eyes were glimmering in the moonlight and Sam was able to pick up the odor of expensive cologne Crowley wore. The demon used to send chills down Sam's spine, now he really only felt like ripping Crowley's spine right out. "The boy with no soul, trying to summon a crossroads demon. I knew you were a moron, but this has reached an entirely new level of idiocy, even for you. But I s'pose just because idiots don't feel stupid, doesn't mean that they aren't." Crowley's words were enunciated, long and intentionally drawn out.

Sam knew it was only done to piss him off since he was already in a hurry. He clearly wanted to get this whole thing over with and get Dean breathing again. He flexed his fingers, turning so that his eyes never left Crowley as the demon strolled around him. Crowley's shoulders were arched back and his head held high. The way he carried himself spoke of exactly how amused he was. He looked about as pleased as the cat that ate the canary. Sam briefly thought of what he wouldn't give to completely wipe that smug look off of Crowley's face and tear him to shreds.

"I want to make a deal." Sam said firmly, his body finally tensing as Crowley stopped in those circling tracks to step up into personal space. When Crowley invaded that space it always made Sam's skin prickle with a familiar craving. He had developed this craving during his time with Ruby, and now it was back with a vengeance in the presence of the aloof demon before him.

Crowley was laughing again. Laughing because not only could he see the peculiar urge in Sam's dark eyes, but because he knew Sam was in way over his head this time. "And what, pray tell, do you plan to make a deal with? You have no soul, Moose!" Crowley spat.

Sam licked his lips nervously as he glanced around quickly, then back to Crowley. He reached slowly towards his side for the knife but stopped when he saw Crowley's eyes darken with murderous intent. His lips didn't move but his eyes said; "You had better fucking not." And Sam wouldn't.

Crowley would run at the first sign of violence from Sam - he could tell instantly - and he wasn't in a hurry to scare off his only chance at helping Dean. Crowley watched as Sam lowered his hand away from the knife and sighed. Sam watched the fearsomely dark, murderous look in Crowley's eyes fade once more to aloof amusement. Crowley tilted his head and raised an inquisitive brow at Sam. It was his move, and the demon was patiently going to wait it out - if for no reason other than entertainment.

"There's gotta be something else you could want from me..." Sam pleaded, "Anything else." His voice was barely above a mere whisper. He was a man trapped in a desperate situation, and he did his best to make it obvious, hoping Crowley would give in with some empathy and make a deal.

Crowley took a couple steps back, rubbing his chin as he observed Sam with deep thought. He was planning something, and Sam wasn't sure he liked that. Crowley's black eyes twinkled dangerously as he nodded slowly. Sam would have felt relief - if he could have had that ability to feel - but right now he simply wanted to get this done and over with.

"All right, Sammy boy. I'll make you a deal - since that's what you want. Instead of your soul - which I would've had to have waited ten years to get anyhow... Let's say... I heal Dean up, good as new, hell, I'll even make it so he can never get sick again, and you turn your body over to me... For two years." Crowley offered, his tone unreadable, though Sam didn't need tone to know Crowley had something dastardly up his sleeve. "I think that's more than a fair trade, you really get the better end of the deal if you ask me." He looked down at his watch. "But I'd hurry up and make a decision because that deal will be off the table in, five... four... three..."

Sam didn't have time to thoroughly think this through. Crowley was twisted, but he was clearly willing to make this deal and Sam couldn't pass this opportunity by. He swallowed uneasily, nodding swiftly. "Okay. Okay. But... You can't hurt me in any way or kill me." Sam blurted out, stepping up to Crowley, who settled a wolfish grin over his features. Sam hated the things he saw in Crowley's eyes as he pulled Sam down to his level by the nape of his neck.

Mouths barely inches apart, Sam shuddered inward a little as he heard the blood thrumming in Crowley's veins. In a flash of blinding white-hot light, Sam briefly felt as if something was burning into his skull. Crowley's voice echoed within his head more than it did in his ears as some strange unknown reached inside him, taking a stranglehold of his subconscious. Like a ghostly presence, Sam felt Crowley's own subconscious tethering to his. It was a union that formed almost instantly, like pieces of a puzzle fitting perfectly; Sam felt everything solidify as Crowley's fingers dug into his neck. A thousands words and memories flashed before his eyes, Crowley's dark voice reaching him in the darkness.

"It's a deal." Crowley hissed, and then – with no warning - his mouth was pressed to Sam's lips, sealing the deal.

Sam grunted in discomfort, but the flavors of good scotch and cigars were filling his senses as Crowley's tongue invaded his mouth - much to Sam's surprise. He groaned softly, closing his lids tight as he allowed Crowley to kiss him. That subconscious link between them seemed to ebb and flow, growing in increments as Sam's control began to slip away. He was lost in the taste that was inhuman. Something about the mouth of a demon was so agonizingly intense that drowned him in the loss of power, like a maze drawing him toward the center. He could hear the quiet coaxing of Crowley's thoughts, telling him that he now belonged to the demon... in every sense of the word...

Crowley now owned him.

Then, just as Sam was getting too far caught up in overwhelming sensations, Crowley's mouth was gone. As he broke away, he gasped for breath and looked around, his eyes widening as he realized he was no longer in the lot outside Bobby's. He had been transported into the grand entryway of a mansion. Sam glanced about with mild curiosity as he took in the 16th century English decor eeking off the walls.

The grand staircase that lead up to the next floor swept skyward in curved elegance. A crystal chandelier hung above him, lit with an engaging ethereal glow. He looked to the left and right, seeing a hallway that lead to what could only be a parlor to his left, and to his right, a free swinging door, from which he could hear hushed voices and the clanking of pots and utensils. He assumed that would be a kitchen. He took a few tentative steps further into the priceless home, looking down briefly at the ornate carpet that stretched out beneath his feet over the pristine hardwood floors. This mansion reminded Sam of a castle – almost fairytale-like in its garishness. The rich woods and elegant carpentry details were nothing short of astounding. He knew there was only one place this could be - Crowley's place of residence.

As Sam's thoughts fluttered around Crowley, the demon was there at the top of the stairs as if right on cue. His dress shoes making a soft click-click against the floor as he descended, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Sam narrowed his gaze, watching intently. This all seemed far too easy, and while he would like this to be a bit simpler - when dealing with demons, it rarely ever was. His head was swimming a little with unfamiliar whispers. Crowley's whispers, to be exact.

"Welcome home, Sammy boy." Crowley said, quirking his lips upward into a very satisfied smirk as he sipped his drink, eyeballing Sam over the crystal rim.

At first, Sam wasn't sure if Crowley had actually stated those words out loud or if it was entirely in his mind. He shook his head a bit, trying to rid himself of the buzzing in his mind and the ringing in his ears. Sam swallowed uneasily and sighed, finding that it was useless. It was unsettling for him; the term "home" wasn't something he wanted to hear from Crowley. In his head or out loud. However, he would agree that his body was Crowley's for the next two years, so he supposed that this made some sort of sense. He would have to live here. He simply hadn't expected Crowley to go so far as to take hold of his mind as well.

"What now? You agreed to not hurt or kill me." Sam asked, his voice thick with irritation and impatience. "So what's your game...?" The cerebral whispers ceased all at once, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

Crowley tutted and shook his head as he stepped off the last stair and approached Sam with fluidity. "Sam, Sam, Sam... Always in such a hurry? Just relax. You're not in any danger and your brother should be celebrating his miraculous recovery right about now, he's just escaped death for the umpteenth time..." Crowley said, maintaining an air of distance. "I suggest you say 'thank you'." Sam folded his arms in defiance across his chest. "Maybe with another kiss... Because that last one was... mmm. Downright tasty..."

Sam didn't exactly enjoy being teased and taunted by Crowley, but it was like water off a duck's back – as it all rolled away. Eye-rolling at Sam's unamused expression, Crowley silently thought this would be so much more fun is Sam did have a soul. At least then he would have had the common sense to be upset, or afraid, or-something other than completely apathetic.

"What... are you going to do with me?" Sam asked harshly, wrinkling his nose a little as Crowley stepped right back into his personal space again, peering at him with eyes full of intrigue and enthrallment. Crowley shook his head, taking another long slurp of his drink. His eyes swept up and down Sam's shape, giving him a grimace of displeasure which caused Sam to knit his eyebrows in curiosity.

Just what was going through Crowley's head right then?

"You are a mess, Sam." Crowley said, his voice silky smooth as he tugged lightly on the front of Sam's jacket and then gestured towards the stairs. "Go upstairs to your room, clean up and dress in more suitable attire, then we'll talk over dinner." Sam opened his mouth to refuse, but Crowley put a stop to the protest as if an imaginary finger pressured Sam's mouth to close. "Not a moment before."

Sam had found he couldn't bring himself to argue the orders as his impulses changed and he began to walk away - not against his will, but certainly not of his own volition. The push of Crowley's subconscious was back, and urging him onward.

"There's a good boy, Sam. I'll see you in the dining room soon enough!" Crowley called out after Sam as he watched him ascend the stairs.

It began to sink into Sam's mind that he was literally Crowley's - like a marionette on thin strings. Sam began to wonder if he would have the mental capacity to leave Crowley after two years – should he need to - if this was what was going to happen to him all day every day. Crowley's will was now Sam's own, and - if he even had the sense (or soul) to be afraid – he knew he would be terrified.

Sam's legs seemed to know where to take him as he climbed the stairs and trudged down a long hallway to the open door of an opulent bedroom. He took in the rich Victorian influence in the room's decoration: lush canopy around the bed of thick velvet curtains, a domed ceiling painted with beautiful clouds and a chandelier in the center. There was an antique armoire coupled with a desk, where - not too surprisingly - Sam's laptop sat perfectly as if had always been there.

Noticing a door slightly ajar, Sam felt a knee-jerk impulse push him to the paneling. He reached out, his fingers taking in the feel of the cool smooth wood as he pushed the door wider to find an enormous and elegant master bathroom. This was the sort of restroom you would see in celebrity's house: an elevated jacuzzi tub, a free standing shower, a mirrored wall where the sinks were mounted, and decorated in all creams and golds. Sam walked over to the bathtub, catching sight of the waterline – steam arising from the sudsy liquid - as he realized someone else had drawn his bath for him.

Suddenly, Sam was actually aching to strip down and step into the tub. He took in the soreness of his muscles and noticed that he did, in fact, smell rather pungent. With a few hurried motions, he stripped off his clothes, letting them fall to the floor. Once the cotton and jean material hit the cool tile, they vanished - probably to never be seen again. At that moment, Sam was too busy with an idea of a hot bath on his mind to dwell on it. Stepping up the three tiny stairs that lead him to the edge of the tub, he slowly sank in, releasing a soft groan as he sank down into the water. He dipped his head under and came back up, slicking his hair away from his face and closed his eyes. This was the best thing he'd felt in a long time. He took a few minutes to relax before he began to wash, from head to toe; he took his time, paying close and careful attention in ways he'd never really done before.

He slid soapy hands and cloth over his skin, finding they were moving according to someone's direction other than his own. The cloth slid out of his hands, making it apparent what he was about to begin to do to himself. Sam's fingers moved up and down his body in a slow and sensual manner, heading over to lightly tease his pert nipples. He arced his head backward, releasing a pent-up groan. As strange as it sounded to admit, he couldn't deny that the sensations felt quite delicious - physically.

His fingers slid down his torso, over his belly, and down between his legs. Sam gasped out loud, squeezing his eyes shut as his hand closed around his growing erection, the other hand gently tugging on his testicles. He bit his lower lip to stifle grunts and groans of pleasure as he continued to touch himself intimately. He could hear Crowley's whispers directing him, urging him, and dominating him to succumb to a deeper, darker desire. Sam was getting off on knowing that Crowley was fully aware of everything he was inflicting onto himself, under his spell, his control... and it shouldn't have made him as pleased as it did to know so much.

He was stunned at how deeply embedded in his head Crowley seemed to have gotten. Sam allowed his hands to be directed, letting his body let go to fall into the power of a masterful demon. He knew he didn't have a real choice in the matter, but he wasn't going to let that spoil the fun. He hadn't pleasured himself like this in a long time. He wasn't able to last very long under the guided ministrations. His hips jerked upward, canting on one roll after another as he gave a strained moan upon his release. He panted to catch his breath, picking the cloth back up to wash-off completely. Sighing in relief at being totally rinsed off and smelling better than he had, Sam closed his eyes in ecstasy.

A short time after, he pulled the plug from the drain and slowly rose from the tub, grabbing a towel as he did. He slowly dried off, taking a peek at his raw nakedness in the elongated mirror. He did feel better now that he was clean. The startling fact was that he couldn't remember the last time he had put that much effort into a bath - mostly catching quick showers here and there at truck stops and trailer parks, sometimes in gas station sinks from a leaky faucet. It was surprisingly refreshing.

With an odd spring to his movements, Sam wrapped the towel around his waist and headed back into the bedroom, going straight to the armoire. He seemed to know exactly that his clothes were in there. He pulled the doors open and looked through, pulling out a button-down navy-blue shirt and white dress slacks, noting that they were already tailored to fit his exact height. It scared him a little, as if Crowley had been planning this situation for months. He slipped on the clothes, running a comb through his hair; he found a pair of slippers by the bedroom door as he headed to exit the room. He slid his feet into the soft plushness, smiling a little. It was like being lovingly pampered.

If he didn't know Crowley as well as he did, Sam would have most likely enjoyed this entire occasion more. He did a little, last-minute adjustment to his shirt as he opened the bedroom door, shuffling out to glance down either end of the hallway. There were a few doors in each direction, and in between them were paintings, and the side-tables carried precious vases and exotic plants on their surfaces.

Dean would have made some sort of snide remark about Crowley's choices in decorum, but Sam actually kind of liked it. Something about it was very old-world royalty. It was practical for Crowley, all things considered.

Sam headed back down the hall and descended the stairs, heading through the parlor into another hallway that lead to the dining room. As he walked down the hall, he glanced through some of the slightly open doors: seeing a sitting room with a very comfortable looking window seat and then a little further down on the opposite side was an armory. He noticed that at the end of the corridor was a pair of French doors, partly open. He knew this was the doorway to the dining room.

Sam slipped quietly into the room, glancing about at the walls which were decorated with draped

tapestries. He caught sight of the large, round table in the room. It was antique, very rustic and its carvings were quite mesmerizing. He furrowed his brows as he suddenly wondered if that was the round table that King Arthur himself had taken a seat at.

Crowley was standing near one of the six windows along the far wall, staring out into his courtyard where there were little paths that swirled and twirled to end up at a center with a very elaborate and frivolous fountain. His back was to Sam, still clutching a glass of his favorite Scotch. "Sam... how good of you to join me." Crowley almost growled the words on a smooth breath, turning his head a little to flash a small smirk in Sam's direction. He raised a brow as he took in Sam's appearance, turning his body to fully face his newly-arrived guest of honor. With a slow nod of satisfaction at the sight of Sam, Crowley chuckled softly. "That... is so much more palatable than your flannel, wouldn't you agree?"

Sam folded his arms and shook his head at Crowley, walking over to the table and taking a seat in one of the chairs as he watched him closely.

Crowley sauntered across the room to sit across from Sam, sipping at his Craig a bit before leaning backward against the chair and setting the glass down. He entangled fingers and hands together on the table top, witnessing Sam sit in stony silence for a few minutes, simply enjoying the absolute quiet that had fallen over the other man. For Crowley the fun was only just beginning...