If anything is the last thing he has to hear, he would want it to be Crowley's voice, whispering, murmuring in his hear. But he would listen to it again and again, being gentle, being encouraging, enticing and honey-sweet.

And he does belong there. If there's anywhere he's ever belonged, or at least felt so much at home, it's wrapped in Crowley's arms, whether in the throws of passion, or simply resting and chatting away in warm familiarity, or on those nights where the wrong words have left wounds that need to be nursed carefully and they learn to not repeat the same mistakes. Any way that they can learn on each other, it gives him a comfort he didn't even know existed, not that long ago. And he craves it more than ever, after it was almost taken away from them.

Words fail when pressure builds. Gasps and heavy breaths, Crowley's murmurs and hissing further making him shudder, pushing back against him and holding on, holding, holding, even against what he's told, strained groans escaping escaping him until he can't hold any longer. With a gasping moan, he tenses and arches his head back, the pleasure of his orgasm shooting through him in a warm encompassing wave. He glows, he does, faintly, here, for a moment, as sometimes happens, some part of him that breaks through when he does let go, some part no one else but the demon has ever bore witness.