One-Shot: Supernatural: I'll be Dead Before the Day is Done: Part I
Title: I'll Be Dead Before the Day is Done
Creator: Patriciatepes
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Crowley/Meg/Fake!Castiel, as well as references to Meg/Real!Castiel hopefulness
Rating: NC-17
Work Type (fic, art): Fic
Word Count: ~11,800
Work URL: Part II
Summary: Set in between SPN Seasons 7 and 8. When Crowley took Meg back home, he decided that he would torture her with everything he could imagine… and when Meg finally reveals some personal information, Crowley uses it to his advantage.
Prompt: Bingo square used from Kink-bingo, erotic torture
Perversities (Kinks, concepts): Torture, knifeplay, bloodplay, language, non-con, dub-con, some drowning type torture, bestiality very lightly described in past tense, various way to inflict pain both emotionally and physically, oral sex, anal sex, fisting, rimming, sexual congress with wounds very lightly described in past tense, masturbation, voyeurism
Warnings: Light spoilers for SPN Season 8, but nothing major, non-con, dub-con, torture, knifeplay, bloodplay, bestiality (lightly described in the past), sexual congress with wounds (very lightly described in past tense)
Author Notes: Title taken from the Florence + the Machine song, "Seven Devils."
I'll be Dead Before the Day is Done
Part I
Hell was not much different under Crowley's rule. To be honest, Meg had not been sure what she had expected to be so different. Was she expecting less screaming in the distance? Not so much noise of metal biting into flesh? Was she expecting the blood and fire and brimstone smell to be gone? She had remembered, back when Castiel had first woken up from his Sam-wall-breakage induced coma that he had spoken to her some of what he had seen when he had made his little deal with Crowley to bust open Purgatory. He had spoken of a long, endless line where the back member of the queue would take a ticket number and join the rest of the zombie-like force of men and women. Every so often, someone unseen would shout, "Next!" in a droning voice, and the whole line would move forward a single step. When Meg had inquired at this point of Castiel's description what happened to those who reached the front, the damned batshit crazy angel had grinned and mumbled that he had asked that very same thing. He then rambled for a few moments about how the two of them had more in common than she knew, and she rolled her eyes and said, for the first of many times, "Put up or shut up, Clarence." This served its purpose of knocking him back on track, and he finally answered that the people at the front of the line went nowhere. It simply started all over.
But Meg knew better. This Hell remake that Crowley had shown Castiel that day… that was bullshit, and she saw right through it. Sure, maybe Crowley had certain sections of Hades cordoned off for such ridiculous torture, but she had known Crowley as long as… well, just about as long as he had been down in the Pit. He was a demon at his core, just like any other, and demons craved torture. Twisted, painful, and perverse torture. A giant queue? Yeah, right.
So, when Crowley's minions had caught her outside of Roman's building and she had been dragged back down below, she was not in the least bit shocked to be greeted by the same sights, sounds, and smells. And she was sure she knew what she was in for. After all, Crowley had told her as much. She was going to "roast until she was jerky." Which meant she would likely be on the rack, chopped up in little pieces day in and day out, held over a flaming pit that actually did resemble a barbeque pit, only to be put back together at the end of the day, and locked in a reeking cell to listen to the moaning and groaning of other souls who had not given in to their more demonic side yet. Rinse and repeat. But where she was now? Right now? That she had not expected.
It was a bedroom. And it had to be of Crowley's creation, since the Lilith-run Hell that Meg remembered held absolutely no places of any sort of comfort. Even when the torture ran that of the sexual, it took place either on the rack or something like that. In fact, if Meg thought back really hard-as this felt like a millennia ago-she remembered Alastair taking her roughly while the Hellhounds ripped at the parts of her they could reach. And then, when they had finally succeeded in ripping off a limb or two, Alastair would only grin, muttering something about "new holes" and begin to fuck her in the now armless arm-hole or legless leg-hole and so on. But none of this ever occurred in an actual bedroom.
It was spacious, this room, and it looked like it was decorated by a sadistic rock fan. Various forms of weaponry hung from the blackened walls-like the very room was built out of onyx. And everything was very… pointy. Pillars at each corner of the room ended in clawed feet at both the top and bottom and it looked as if they could tear you a new one if used correctly. Even the frame of the four-poster bed that Meg was currently strapped to-fully clothed, much to her surprise-was made out of and to match the black material of the walls. The sheets she lay on were not even unpleasant… they were silk, and blood red, and her dark hair was even splayed out over silk-covered pillows. No, this had not been what she had expected.
But then again, maybe she should have. She knew Crowley. Alastair had taught Meg long ago that the best torturers never got their hands dirty, but Crowley? He liked getting dirty. That smarmy dick thought it better proved his point if he could dig his grimy hands into your flesh and paint the walls with your blood. Crowley made torture personal. Crowley made everything personal. And just thinking about it made Meg smirk. Only the most evolved demons had a purpose and business… Crowley? He was bottom-barrel, wanting Hell all to himself like a spoiled little prince. And she had to give him at least a little bit of credit. He had made himself Lilith's personal little whipping-bitch to do it. Meg thought it a shame that she had at least not seen Crowley's delusions of grandeur coming. But her mind had been where it was supposed to be back then-serving Lucifer.
The door to the bedroom opened, echoing loudly like it was the door to some grand cathedral or something. Meg lifted her head up as far as she could get it and scoffed, laughing. Crowley, dressed in his usual black suit, smiled at her.
"I haven't the foggiest why you're laughing, darling," he said, closing the door behind him. "You know when I visit, it's never good for you."
And he was not wrong. He had visited her often, and rumors were flying around, even reaching Meg's ears here in this Hell-made bedroom, that torturing her was his new hobby. Several of the demons he had sent in his place when he simply could not make it-pressing Hell matters, she supposed-had even called her his pet and his favorite. The thought made the stomach of Meg's meatsuit churn and her mouth fill with bile.
Crowley crossed the distance between the door of the room and the foot of the bed leisurely. He was rubbing his hands together like he was about to sit down before a grand feast, and that self-important grin was permanently in place on his lips. Meg would love nothing more than to rip the look right off with her bare hands.
"What will it be today, my little whore?" Crowley said thoughtfully, his eyes gazing about the walls. "More whips today? I know how much you enjoyed the lashings I gave you last time I was here."
Meg was used to Hell. She was, honestly. But keeping a perfect poker face was difficult, especially when the sting of the cat o' nine tails was still memorable on her bare shoulders. She shifted against her bonds, stretched out as she was with each ankle and wrist lashed to the nearest post of the bed. Crowley chuckled.
"Yes, I enjoyed that too. But I don't think we'll do that today. I feel like I've been taking it far too easy on you, pet. I think some sort of knife today," he said, walking to the wall to his left and selecting something that looked like a serrated meat cleaver.
Meg rolled her eyes. "You're too predictable, Crowley."
He arched a brow at her. "How so, love?"
She smirked. "All those knives and you choose the biggest one. Tell me something, Fergus, was three inches really enough?"
He growled, just briefly, just enough to let Meg know that she had gotten under his skin. But in the next second, he was all grins, advancing on her. He sat down on the edge of the bed on her right side and pressed the flat side of the knife-cold despite being a knife of Hell-against the tender flesh of her cheek.
"Oh, Meg… you always think you know just what to say… what to do… who to serve… and where has that gotten you? Tied up to my bed as my personal little plaything. What do you have to say to that?"
She shook her head. "You always sucked on the rack. You remember when Alastair let you practice on me? How I laughed and laughed at you? You never did get the hang of it."
The grin was gone, and Crowley snapped the fingers of his free hand. Suddenly, Meg was aware more than ever of the coolness of the silk on her. Her clothes, every last stitch, were gone. He shook his head and trailed the knife down her cheek, her neck, and in between her breasts. He paused just above her navel, bringing the handle straight up into the air and putting enough pressure on the tip to bring just a trickle of blood to the surface. Meg hissed, but the sound was low and almost inaudible against the din of screams and wails coming from beyond the bedroom.
"Oh yes," Crowley chuckled, like he had suddenly remembered the humor behind Meg's little anecdote about his time torturing her on the rack. "I do remember that. I also remember how I got you to stop laughing. The one thing that Alastair taught me that I've made sure to keep in mind."
"And what is that?"
Crowley dragged the knife down now, below her waist, and suddenly Meg's bravado was wavering. She had forgotten this part of the tale, but it was screaming back to her now as she felt the tip of the blade at her entrance. Crowley leaned forward, and she could smell the scotch on his breath.
"Alastair said, 'Treat her like the whore she is.'"
And he shoved the blade deep inside her. Her back arched as she screamed, feeling the knife tear through flesh that was never intended to be treated in such a way. Crowley chuckled.
"Do you like it slow, Meg?" he asked, withdrawing the knife to the tip just to shove it deep inside her once more. He repeated the motion in an agonizing slowness before he continued, "Or are you one of those girls that always begs, faster and faster?"
He increased the speed of the blade, and Meg could feel his fist-the only clear hilt of the weapon-ramming against her outer flesh while the blade ripped at her insides. She could easily imagine her innards turning to ribbons, and could actually feel the hot blood pouring out from her. Crowley grinned and leaned forward, and he was so close to her now that she could feel his breath on her neck. Her nose and lip curled in disgust, despite the pain of the ramming knife. He chuckled low into her ear, his tongue snaking out and wiggling just inside of it. Meg pulled her head away, screaming and now adding insults to her pain.
"You fucking bastard," she growled as he finally, fully, removed the knife.
He laughed, pulling the blade up to where her neck and shoulder met. He sliced once there, diagonally, and she hissed with the pain.
"What's the matter, whore? Don't like the reminder of what you are? Tell me something, darling, when you were alive, what was your record? I mean, just how many men did you take in a single night? Did you let them all come in your mouth, or was it a shower-type situation?"
All the time he spoke, he was slicing away at her flesh, making swift little cuts here and there all about her torso and cutting at the tender under-flesh of her breasts. But Meg maintained that she was used to Hell, and she was used to whatever it was that Crowley could throw at her. She laughed, the grin she was trying for becoming more of a grimace.
"Why does it matter, Crowley?" she chuckled. "No matter the quantity, they were still of better quality than you."
He growled, giving into anger as he brought the knife back and stabbed it deep into her belly. She gasped, curling into the source of her pain. But as she fell back against the pillows, she was still laughing.
"I'll always laugh, Crowley," she taunted. "Just like every other woman you've ever been with. Torture me all you want, but I'll still always laugh."
Crowley ripped the knife from her, tossing it carelessly on the floor. It wouldn't matter. As soon as Crowley left, the room would reset itself, like some big do-over. He stood from the bed and stormed from the room, Meg's taunting, albeit pain-edged, laughter trailing after him.
##
Damn that whore. Crowley stormed from the bedroom, snapping his fingers just outside the door-where he could still hear that bitch laughing-to appear in his new mansion's lavish study. He made his way over to his liquor cabinet, pouring a full glass of Craig before taking a seat in his brown leather office chair. He took a long, leisurely sip of his scotch before letting a little, annoyed growl free. Torturing your enemies was just no fun if they were actually managing to come away from it psychologically okay. And yes, he was aware that, like him, Meg was a demon who had been on Hell's rack for who knows how long.
He sneered into his drink, thinking back on all the times that little whore had bragged about being Alastair's personal student. Alastair showed many people how to torture other souls in the pit, but he took only a handful of students… Crowley found himself wondering if it would properly irk Meg to remind her that Dean friggin' Winchester had been one of those students as well.
After a moment of rolling that around in his mind, he finished the rest of his drink in one swallow, slamming the glass down on the desk. No. That wouldn't be enough. In fact, that would probably be something she could throw back at him. Pretty boy Dean-good, righteous Dean-had been a student, but not him. It would take more. Crowley would have to dig deep to find that precious little nerve, that special little note that would make Meg Masters-as she called herself now-remember Hell the way it was when she first arrived. A scary damn place where all your dirty little secrets were laid bare for all to see and laugh at. He just had to find that sweet spot.
##
For the first time in days-weeks, months, years, who the hell knew?-Meg was no longer tied to the bed. She was still bound, yes, at the wrists and ankles, and she was nude again. It was common practice in Hell to torture nude… all the more shame. Not that Meg felt much shame anymore. The good thing about being an older demon.
But Crowley had come to her again, the following day, and he had started slow. Little, stinging cuts all up and down her flesh. He brought a bottle of that foul smelling scotch that he preferred, leisurely drinking it with one hand while the other carved all manner of things into her pale flesh. Meg had not looked up to see what he had done, but she knew the practice well enough to make out the words, "slut," "whore," and "harlot" as he marked them into her flesh. But, like the day before, she had only laughed at him. He growled in annoyance at her, until, finally, she pressed just the right buttons. He was beginning to chop off toes as Meg smiled up at the smarmy dick and said, "Trying to add a few more inches, Crowley? Because, really, I doubt the pinkie toe would be the place to start."
And that's when he had taken her off the bed. Careful, always so damn careful, to keep her tied up, he dragged her into a red-and-ebony adjoining bathroom that Meg had not realized this Hell-made bedroom had had. There was no toilet, of course, but there was a sink and a large tub. And the tub was filled nearly to the brim with a familiar smelling liquid. Crowley forced her to her knees, and being so close to the source of the smell now, Meg knew that it was easily some sort of bleach.
"It's a shame that such a pretty face has such a filthy mouth. And, in my experience, a good whore needs to keep her mouth clean to get all the good customers," he said.
Grasping a handful of her dark hair, he shoved her into the bleach, the liquid coming up just past her shoulders-upside down, of course-and spilling all over the side of the tub. She wanted to scream, feeling the horrible stinging filling her open wounds. It sent a terrible tingling-almost like an uncontrollable itching-all over her body, and it felt like a dull fire was consuming her body. Crowley finally pulled her up, and she gasped for air.
"Hmm," he said, surveying her. "Wonder what you would look like blonde?"
He shoved her back in just as she was about to spit some insult at him. The bleach filled her mouth and made her gag and retch, the burning doing nothing to ease this feeling. Crowley shoved her head to the bottom of the tub, forcing her cheek to the cool black material of the container's flooring. It was a struggle to keep her eyes closed, and the bleach was beginning to feel like acid on her skin. Just when she was about to give in, when she was sure she was going to drown on the terrible taste of bleach, Crowley jerked her out of the tub and threw her to the floor.
Gasping, Meg laid back, the cold of the floor making her wounds contract and ache even more. She could see locks of her bleach-soaked hair over her shoulder, and they were now a terrible shade of yellow-blonde. She grimaced up at Crowley, who was just the very picture of self satisfaction.
"Definitely an improvement," he said, reaching down and picking her up by her hair.
She growled as he dragged her back into the bedroom, tossing her onto the bed. Her wrist were bound behind her, and her own hands were digging uncomfortably into the mid of her back. She tried to struggle, to roll back off the bed-anything to piss this bastard off-but Crowley was straddling her in a moment. She wrinkled her nose up at him, and he laughed.
"That's rather a becoming look on you, Meg, darling," he said, snapping his fingers.
In an instant, her legs went from being bound together to being spread eagle and bound back to the bottom two posts of the bed. Her hands remained, however, still tied behind her back. She wriggled underneath him, growling up at the King of Hell.
"Get off."
"That's the idea," Crowley said, his hands lowering to the zipper and button to his black slacks.
Meg frowned. No. She groaned, watching as Crowley pulled his fully erect member from his pants.
"I don't usually prefer blondes," he said, wrapping a fist around a thick, long cock that probably-Meg noted-was nothing like the one he had had, naturally, in life. "But on you… it just works."
He began to stroke, tug, and pull at himself, clearly enjoying Meg's discomfort. She turned her face away from him, but his free hand grabbed her under her chin, wrenching her head back around.
"No, no, no… good little whores know how to earn their keep. Eye contact is essential," he said, a soft little moan escaping as his hand gained speed.
"Spent a lot of time with whores, have you?" Meg asked through gritted teeth.
It had been a while since someone had used this kind of torture on her. Actually, now that she thought about it, not since Alastair had this method been used. Crowley liked his hack-and-slash method, usually, throwing in a few mind-fucks here and there. But nothing usually so base. Biting lightly at the inside of her lip, making sure to keep her mouth clamped shut, it was becoming difficult for her to keep her poker face. The fact that this bottom-feeder was using her mutilated body to get off was getting to her more than she would have cared to admit to. And something must have been slipping to the surface, because the more her discomfort grew, the faster his hand moved and the louder his moans got. Finally, being a woman who had had her fair share of men-though, despite Crowley's usage of the term for her, she had not been a whore in the strictest sense-Meg recognized the tell-tale signs of a man about to reach his climax. His cock twitched, and Meg's mouth was surely just a thin line now. But Crowley's grin was pure evil, and he slid his thumb and forefinger up, gripping Meg's face just where her jaw hinged, forcing her mouth wide open. Crying out, he came, his hot cum landing all over her breasts, and a decent amount landing right on target-her mouth. He sighed, moving to stand and collect himself as Meg spat his semen in his direction. He dodged it easily, chuckling.
"What's the matter, kitten? Out of practice?" Crowley laughed as he finished zipping up his pants.
Meg's resolved wavered, and she didn't like that. But, finding her bravado once more, she shrugged.
"You're still just fucking yourself, Crowley."
A tight little "humph" escaped Crowley's lips as he turned, snapping his fingers to properly restrain her on the bed once more.
"See you tomorrow, dear," he said, exiting the room.
Part II