Handbaskets
Title: Handbaskets
Warnings: Torture, Hell, Season Five spoilers, KIND OF.
Characters: Dean, Bela Talbot, Alastair
Rating: M.
For: comment_fic prompt, "Supernatural, Dean/Bela, she's the first on his rack after he picks up the knife" except not so much Dean/Bela.
It's a lovely day in Hell.
The meat hooks art shining, the victims are screaming, twisting and lurching as the chains that tether their limbs together clank and sing in victory.
There's amusement in her tone and on her lips when she smiles a crooked, "Dean." Meat hooks rip through the skin on her arms, tearing at flesh and latching on to muscle and bone. Crucified, Dean thinks, in the un-holiest of ways. Rusty metal pulls at flaps of her skin, loose enough inside her that every time she shifts, a scream fights to escape her upwards-pursed lips, but she won't let it.
He speaks and his voice is gruff, but his eyes are dark and smiling. "Bela."
"Mmm, mmm, mmm," Alastair had fostered the excited little stammer in Dean's heart, and that little glint in his eye, and he waits patiently now for his garden to blossom. He has other fledglings that he should be training, but this is much juicier. The unveiling of his own self portrait in the gallery.
"Long time no see," she observes in that sickly-sweet British voice of hers. On the other side, this would have annoyed the crap out of Dean, but here, now... it is beautiful. His head swims, just a little.
"Figures this would be where you'd end up," he snarls.
Perspiration begins to drench her chocolate hair, and his hand wants to hack all of it off, to tear it from her scalp. She bites her lip, eyes slipping closed as the hook pulls at her, and he can already see his blade covered in her thick, sweet blood. She breathes, and he wants to take that from her too.
Alastair can see his prodigy tensing up, overwhelmed. "Easy," he coos, "Take it nice and slow."
Wordlessly, Dean reaches into his toolbox, and pulls out a metal skewer. He lays down the knife, still watching her with fascination on his lips. She begins to give to the realisation that she is really in trouble, and the air tenses. It's almost too much for him, too much for Alastair, too, and he's been doing this for years.
Dean nears her with the poker, its end already red-hot, and that kind of magic only happens in Hell. He swivels it along her skin, watching the flesh blistering as soon as it hits the humid air. He controls the skewer like an artist controls his brush.
Alastair sits back and watches his masterpiece begin to come to life.
Warnings: Torture, Hell, Season Five spoilers, KIND OF.
Characters: Dean, Bela Talbot, Alastair
Rating: M.
For: comment_fic prompt, "Supernatural, Dean/Bela, she's the first on his rack after he picks up the knife" except not so much Dean/Bela.
It's a lovely day in Hell.
The meat hooks art shining, the victims are screaming, twisting and lurching as the chains that tether their limbs together clank and sing in victory.
There's amusement in her tone and on her lips when she smiles a crooked, "Dean." Meat hooks rip through the skin on her arms, tearing at flesh and latching on to muscle and bone. Crucified, Dean thinks, in the un-holiest of ways. Rusty metal pulls at flaps of her skin, loose enough inside her that every time she shifts, a scream fights to escape her upwards-pursed lips, but she won't let it.
He speaks and his voice is gruff, but his eyes are dark and smiling. "Bela."
"Mmm, mmm, mmm," Alastair had fostered the excited little stammer in Dean's heart, and that little glint in his eye, and he waits patiently now for his garden to blossom. He has other fledglings that he should be training, but this is much juicier. The unveiling of his own self portrait in the gallery.
"Long time no see," she observes in that sickly-sweet British voice of hers. On the other side, this would have annoyed the crap out of Dean, but here, now... it is beautiful. His head swims, just a little.
"Figures this would be where you'd end up," he snarls.
Perspiration begins to drench her chocolate hair, and his hand wants to hack all of it off, to tear it from her scalp. She bites her lip, eyes slipping closed as the hook pulls at her, and he can already see his blade covered in her thick, sweet blood. She breathes, and he wants to take that from her too.
Alastair can see his prodigy tensing up, overwhelmed. "Easy," he coos, "Take it nice and slow."
Wordlessly, Dean reaches into his toolbox, and pulls out a metal skewer. He lays down the knife, still watching her with fascination on his lips. She begins to give to the realisation that she is really in trouble, and the air tenses. It's almost too much for him, too much for Alastair, too, and he's been doing this for years.
Dean nears her with the poker, its end already red-hot, and that kind of magic only happens in Hell. He swivels it along her skin, watching the flesh blistering as soon as it hits the humid air. He controls the skewer like an artist controls his brush.
Alastair sits back and watches his masterpiece begin to come to life.