[FIC] A Dalliance (Crowley/Sam)

[assdictionary]

Summary: Set in 1870s posh and high society England. The latter scene is loosely inspired by a scene in the 2009 Dorian Gray.
Word Count: 2067
Characters: Crowley, Sam, Dean Winchester, Balthazar
Pairings: Crowley/Sam, mentioned Balthazar/Crowley
Tags: NSFW (sex scene fade to black)



 Sam looked around the room with a quiet interest, adjusting the cravat at his neck and worrying his lip under his teeth, curiosity mixing with his nerves as he surveyed the room. Dean had kept with their father on the other side of the room, but Sam had broken away, willing to take what little freedom he could.

And yet, his endeavour had proved mostly pointless. Two women had tittered at him for daring to be so bold as to speak to him, and now he moved away from the middle of the room to retreat to a corner. “Oh, you needn’t worry yourself, boy.” Sam jolted, blinking down at the other man.

His suit was a damn sight nicer than Sam’s own, expensive, no doubt, and perfectly tailored where Sam’s was growing just a little short for him - he was quite at the end of his increasing height now, he thought, so the next suits he got would undoubtedly last him longer. 

"They are snobbish, foppish creatures, concerned with the immaterial.” The man purred, and he dropped casually into a seat. Sam followed to sit next to him, wanting to be polite. “They dislike new money, and my money is moderately new, and yours is very new indeed.” The man grinned, and Sam found himself staring at the stubble on his cheeks and his jaw, and at how white his teeth were. “Polite society is so rarely polite, I find.”

"D’you think so, sir?"

"I do, sir." The man said, and then his grin faded into a teasing smile. "And it’s do you, not d’you.” Sam’s cheeks flushed scarlet, and he shifted in his seat.

"Sorry, I-"

"You’re American.” The man interrupted in a charming, drawn out fashion. It didn’t seem to be a meaningless observation, nor one couched in derision as he’d already heard that evening, but… A flirtation.

"From Kansas, sir." Sam said, swallowing hard. "My name is Sam Winchester."

"Yes, Winchester, I know. Crowley McLeod."

"McLeod?" Sam repeated, recognizing the name from his father’s industry papers, and Crowley grinned.

"Indeed." Crowley purred. "Come, tell me, how are you enjoying London?"

"It’s good, sir, very different to what I’m used to, but good." Sam said good-naturedly. 

"And do you go to the clubs?"

"The clubs? No, sir, my father would never allow it." Crowley’s lip twitched in something that seemed like amusement. Sam found himself wondering how old this man was, guessing he was in his thirties, perhaps - certainly a good deal older than Sam’s own two and twenty.

"Are you on your father’s leash?" Sam shifted, his stance turning defensive.

"I sit before you now, sir, do I not?" Crowley laughed, and patted Sam’s knee affectionately. He drew his hand away but the memory of it but the memory of its warmth and its weight remained in place, tingling across Sam’s skin and making him shift.

"How would you like to join me for tea tomorrow, Sam? I’m afraid I must be going now, but I could send a hansom for you…"

"I’d like that." Sam managed to say, and then Dean was at his shoulder and he stood, waving the other man goodbye as he let his brother lead him.

—-

Crowley’s household was an intimidating thing. Sam stepped from the hansom with a polite nod to the driver, moving cautiously up the path and onto its front step to knock on the door. He’d been vague in informing his father as to whomexactly he was visiting this morning, merely stating that he’d made a friend or two at the party the night before, and John, concerned as he was with his own work, had accepted this explanation and allowed Sam to go.

Dean had not yet risen from his bed - if he had, Sam was certain he would not have been so lucky.

It was a pleasant enough servant that greeted him through the door, leading him to where Crowley settled in the drawing room, books laid out before him on the desk. “Sam.” He greeted lightly, grinning at him.

"Crowley." Sam returned, and he wasn’t certain what he was doing here, what they’d talk of, but then it was easy. Crowley read to Sam from some English poetry texts he’d never heard from, and then they slipped into easy conversation, talking about politics, or about philosophy, or of art.

And when Sam went home that evening, he went feeling satisfied, but disappointed to leave. It became a regular thing, Sam visiting Crowley’s apartments, weekly or biweekly. They laughed together, they smiled, and Sam adored the older man for what Crowley would teach him, but also simply for his good humour and his sharp tongue - for his company.

It was after two months that he entered the room to find Crowley with his cheeks flushed, his cravat messily tied at his collar, his suit ruffled. “Am I interrupting something?”

"Not at all, Sam, not at all." Crowley said, grinning, and he seemed as cleverly smug as ever, even if his physical appearance seemed to denote his flustered state obviously. "Merely a dalliance that is not long over, I assure you."

"A dalliance?" Sam repeated, and he felt something coil sharply in his gut, his innards seeming distinctly green all of a sudden. How absurd. To be jealous of some woman for being beneath Crowley for- well. Such things.

"Indeed so, my good man." Crowley regarded him for a few moments. "Pleasure is the most important of sins, do you not think?"

"I- I do not know, sir." He stuttered a little as Crowley stepped forwards, looking up at Sam (and Sam somehow always managed to forget that Crowley was so much shorter than him, what with his charismatic presence) with an inquisitive look. 

"Why, Sam, you look positively sick with envy.” The boy’s cheeks flushed, but Crowley merely slapped his arm. 

"Why, you needn’t worry, my boy. I’m certain we could find you a woman." He winked, and Sam swallowed hard, unsure how to respond, but then Crowley looked at him again, and his smirk became an almost beam. “Ah, I see. Not jealous of me, but of her…” And he stepped yet closer, reaching up to adjust Sam’s cravat. “How would you feel to be told it was not a her at all, Sam, but a him?”

Sam let out a stuttered little noise too nervous and whining to be called an answer, and Crowley chuckled. “Calm down: I shall force you into nothing, my friend. I’ve no need for coercion.”

"Wait." Sam said when Crowley moved to draw back, and Sam found himself staring at Crowley’s lips, considering them for a moment before he said. "Would you- would you kiss me-" Crowley grasped at the other’s lapel, pulling him down and pressing his mouth firmly to the other man’s, and Sam let out a squeak, surprised by how warm Crowley’s lips were against his own.

When Crowley traced with his tongue, Sam parted his lips, and he leaned into it as Crowley kissed him deeply, startled by how arrestingly enchanted the embrace was - the warmth of his lips, the wet cleverness of his tongue, and the comforting weight of Crowley’s hands upon his hips.

"By God." He whispered as Crowley pulled away, one hand moving up to feel over his own face, where Crowley’s stubble had tickled the bare skin.

“God? Please, sir, address me as Crowley.”

"Shut up." Sam muttered, his cheeks flushing a pretty vermillion as Crowley grinned up at him. "Is this right, sir? Embracing each other- as men-“

"Who cares for what is right these days?" Crowley said, his tone coaxing, soothing, as he led Sam back to the chairs.

"And your young lover?"

"A mere dalliance - he was of no consequence. You? You matter."

"Will he be hurt by th-"

"Surely not." Crowley assured him, pushing him down into a seat, and then, God help him, Sam stared as he watched Crowley drop to his knees, deft fingers moving to the buttons of Sam’s own trousers. "You may meet him, some time this week. He is hardly young, either - about my age, I would say.” And then Crowley was dipping his head, having firmly parted Sam’s fly, and all rational thought left the younger man’s mind.

—-

Later, Sam lay in Crowley’s bed, his hair dishevelled, his clothes strewn about the room as he took in slow breaths where he lay, back on the soft mattress with his head on a thick pillow. Crowley’s bed was the epitome of indulgence and decadence, and he felt drowsy despite the new ache in his muscles, once he’d not experienced before, and the comfortable lighting of the room.

Crowley regarded him, laying on his side and watching Sam as lazily as the snake watches the rat, blinking slowly. “Are you well?”

"I am perfect." Sam answered after a pause. "Are you?"

"I am charmed, arrested, enchanted, delighted." Crowley leaned, pressing kisses across the naked flesh of Sam’s thigh, and the other had to suppress a soft groan. "You are as beautiful as any Adonis - Aphrodite would weep to look upon you."

Sam’s cheeks coloured a little, and he shifted as if tickled. “Why, you oughtn’t say such things, sir. One might think me a blushing virgin.”

"Well, I believe I’ve certainly assured not the barest hints of chastity remains about you, my boy." Crowley said, and Sam laughed a little.

"No, I suppose you’ve done that. Thoroughly." He conceded, and Crowley’s laugh was a nice sound, loud and melodic. "I should go."

"I wish you wouldn’t." Crowley said, but he drew back, allowing the other man freedom to crawl from bed.

—-

The party was a comfortable one, Crowley’s apartments awash with people (most of whom despised the man, but that was neither here nor there.), but Dean Winchester was distinctly not comfortable. He could not find his brother for the life of him, and was looking around with a perplexed and baffled manner.

"Can I help you, Dean?" Balthazar was a suave creature, thin and tall and in a suit that somehow emphasized these two features immeasurably, and Dean looked at him with a frown. He did not know that Balthazar had been classified, not two weeks before, as Crowley’s "young lover". He especially did not know that Sam Winchester actually was Crowley’s young lover.

"My brother, have you seen him?"

"Your brother? Sam? Why, he’s with Crowley, no doubt." Dean nodded. Balthazar laughed, and, feeling impetuously full of good humour, pointed up at the ceiling. Dean paled.

Balthazar laughed as he ran up the stairs.

“McLeod.” Dean growled, throwing himself across the room, and Crowley was frustratingly unruffled as the other man grasped at his cravat, opening his mouth to yell, but then he froze, glancing about the room, and dropped Crowley’s lapels. “Uh, I, uh, um- Sorry, I was looking for my brother, and I, uh, I thought-“ 

"Last I saw Sam he was going down into the pantry for a bottle of wine." Crowley said, raising his eyebrows. "I had to change my shirt, because the last bottle of wine was spilt on me rather unceremoniously.”

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean- I’m just- I’m gonna go-" Dean said, pointing back to the door, and he scrambled out of the room, completely mortified and perfectly ready to punch Balthazar in his smug French face.

He closed the door behind him, and Crowley grinned at himself in the mirror, fixing the cravat at his neck that Dean had disturbed. Sam giggled from under the bed. The giggle became a chuckle, and then both of them were laughing, mirth twisting both their features as Sam pulled himself out from under the bed’s wooden frame.

"That was- he thought-" Sam wheezed from the ground, and Crowley hid his face in his hands as he snorted. 

"That he did, Sam, that he did. Get up, now, you need to acquire yourself a bottle of wine.”