Fanfiction: Hypocrite (Supernatural)
Title: "Hypocrite”
Status: OneShot; Complete
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Crowley, Dean
Disclaimer: SPN belongs to the mastermind Eric Kripke, CW and others, I'm just playing.
Rating: M
AN: slash (off-screen/implied)
Warnings: unbeta'ed, (more or less) graphic torture, AU
Summary: Crowley's favorite brand of entertainment? A good torture session and a glass of pricey whiskey...
Hypocrite
Crowley had always enjoyed watching a good torture session, especially in Hell, where bodies were merely the souls' representation of the physical realm, because that was all the human mind could process. A soul was eternal in the throes of agony - flesh was not.
But this, what he witnessed now, was Hell on Earth, art painted on white skin, in luxurious shades of red. A masters work shrouded in silence - the pain so stark it took the little traitors breath away, denying him even the mock relief of screaming.
Muscles shivered under blemished skin, feeling the approach of the cold blade, but unable to see it. Anticipation lay rich and sour in the air, like perfume - the blindfold was a nice touch, simple yet efficient.
Crowley watched, well outside the range where blood might splatter, and sipped from a glass with his chosen brand of whiskey. His eyes followed the curve of shallow cuts with rapt attention. The knife had been doused in holy water - each dark line on white began to bubble with red liquid as it burned its way deeper like acid.
This was teasing foreplay. No need for gore just yet - but when that point was reached hours later and screams echoed as if caged in the white tiled room, Crowley started to feel... uneasy. It wasn't the torture itself - he had seen it all and done himself. He was a demon, after all, and enjoyed the darker perks of his existence.
Maybe there lay the answer, though: he did not fancy the thought of being strapped on that rack himself. Because Dean had managed to surpass even Alistair and that kind of fine artistry being turned on himself would cease being fun and games for Crowley. Being topside as a demon illustrated quite well how he had fared after being dragged to Hell by its hounds.
It was in that very moment that Dean chose to look up with his black eyes, staring at him as if he sensed Crowley's train of thought. He suppressed the shiver that jolted through him, similar to any prey that knew a predator was nearby.
Crowley hid it well, just lifting a questioning eyebrow, not trusting his ability to come up with a witty remark should he attempt to speak. Dean smiled, showing too much teeth, before he turned back to the bloody mess of a body. Another scream and sizzling holy water, the stench of burned flesh. Under a masters blade there was no cheating torture with sweet unconsciousness or a premature death.
Later, when Dean's hand reached out and Crowley picked another knife for him to use obligingly, the demon couldn't shake the feeling that he had given away more than he had ever intended to: a weakness.
The creature of Hell Dean had become would be too happy to exploit it later on, between silky sheets and brutal kisses...
End