"Stop it, John," the demon scowled, annoyed at having his reactions and weaknesses so blatantly called out, and at being treated like a wounded animal. Especially when John had no idea what really happened in Hell. He didn't know about the expert mind games. He wasn't aware that it hadn't been an experience of sheer physical torture, but that every gesture could end unpredictably in a kick or a caress; that the kindnesses were almost worse because they were genuine, even if their ultimate goal was only to cause more pain. "I'm not Chicago."

And he knew very well that this man could hurt him - had hurt him before. But he also understood that John didn't intend to, which made up a great deal of the difference. It was all very confusing, and he was getting mixed messages from both of them. Lust, compassion, regret, hope, worry, desire, fear, insecurity, uncertainty, love, and want were so tightly bound together, he couldn't tell what was coming from whom.

Refusing to submit to the fear, which he was pretty sure was his, Crowley strode decisively into John's personal space. "Shying away like this?" he asked, voice low and reckless. "I'm 'shying away' from fuck. all."