This place is nothing like the real deal Hell. It's easier, cleaner, more trustworthy. It's certainly safer. It's also less discerning, follows a different set of rules, which made Dean feel slightly unsteady at first.
He's over that now. The rest of this he can use, and that part in particular? Just means that if he were still the type that needed an excuse for anything that he does, he could lie to himself about helping these people understand how lucky they are to get to go back to their lives more or less as they left them when they get with the program here.
But he doesn't need excuses, just opportunity - of which there is plenty - and motivation. The motivation is harder because he's long since decided the best course of action is to play on his doe-eyed dearly departed inmate self - human self - as much as possible for the most leverage with the least effort. And truthfully, he doesn't need this like his fellow demons seem to. But he's still restless, his temper has taken a turn for the petty and the bitter, and after all.
He has a job to do.
Under Anya's guidance he's changed his cabin to Bobby's house because that's supposed to be a place of comfort or something, but mostly he's interested in this room: what used to be Bobby's panic room in the basement, with the iron swapped over to stainless steel, slashes through all the protective wards, breaking rituals done for the rest. He did it himself because he still considers himself a self-made demon, and the holy water and salt glaze he's powerful enough to ignore. All the anti-demon protection has been replaced with updated, more suitable features, like his tray of instruments as big as the desktop where he used to make blessed ammunition.
There's an unpaired inmate on the rack in the middle of the room. Dean has halfway killed her, but the other half will be slow, and he knows how to avoid doing any damage that will speed it along. She's sobbing, quietly, eyes closed and head hung like she doesn't even know she's doing it and from what Dean remembers himself, she probably doesn't. All he cares about is that she still jerks and flinches away when he presses his scalpel idly down through the skin and muscle to her collar bone, draws the tip along to the point of her shoulder, and peels back the bloody layer as if he needs to see what's beneath to know what's there.
His hands are bloody to the wrist but other than that there's nothing on him, his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, well versed in where to stand and how to cut to keep the spray off his boots, his jeans. The hands, though, he likes: his new equivalent to grease under the fingernails. It's also why he sent the text to invite Kira before he even started - it wouldn't do to get his communicator dirty, and she'll probably be hungry. If not, she's certain to be as bored as he is.
Eternity is a good thing to have when planning to destroy a world. In practice, it's a lot of goddamn time to fill.
He will hear her before he sees her, humming an old lullabye that echoes along the corridors as she approaches the cabin that Dean and his new friend are situated in. It's as much for caution as anything else; this body has a lovely voice, but this way Dean knows exactly who's coming.
The humming comes to a halt as she opens the door, her expression gaining the beatific air of someone who's just caught the scent of a delicious meal.
"Torture and dinner? Is this a date?" she asks slyly, closing the door behind her before approaching the inmate. She keeps her hands behind her back, leaning in close and sniffing delicately as if the young woman was a fine wine. "Or is it more of a party?"
He hears he coming. So does the woman, though there's not enough left of her on the conscious plane to react to it by more than becoming generally agitated, whimpering under her breath in a way that makes Dean smile. "Oh c'mon now, darlin'," he tells her, leaning over to try and find her eyes behind the blood-stringed curtain of her hair, using his scalpel to part it delicately, but no luck. Her eyes care closed. "At least she's fun."
Then Kira is there and the demon in his hunter guise straightens, turning until he's not quite facing her, and he does not grin at her like he once would have one of his friends. His smile matches hers: slick like snake oil, polished and confident. Cocky, with a deal with the devil to back it up.
"That depends on you, I think," he teases, stepping back to let her in closer, inspecting the edge of his blade instead without fully looking away from her. "Will you still respect me after?"
"As an artist, certainly." the Nogitsune replies. "And I certainly appreciate those who understand that I am, in my way, a gourmet."
She looks across at him over the top of the woman's head. Her eyes are bright and shining, but not with power; just delight. "I need to touch her to feed, but I don't want to disturb your work. Show me where I can."
Whatever reaction the words have on the prisoner, they prompt a gentle hushing from Kira. "Don't worry, don't worry." she coos, "In a moment, I'm going to take your pain." Just so Dean can offer her some more. Poor lamb.
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timeasmymeasure
CW: Torture
Date: 2014-11-15 03:57 pm (UTC)He's over that now. The rest of this he can use, and that part in particular? Just means that if he were still the type that needed an excuse for anything that he does, he could lie to himself about helping these people understand how lucky they are to get to go back to their lives more or less as they left them when they get with the program here.
But he doesn't need excuses, just opportunity - of which there is plenty - and motivation. The motivation is harder because he's long since decided the best course of action is to play on his doe-eyed dearly departed inmate self - human self - as much as possible for the most leverage with the least effort. And truthfully, he doesn't need this like his fellow demons seem to. But he's still restless, his temper has taken a turn for the petty and the bitter, and after all.
He has a job to do.
Under Anya's guidance he's changed his cabin to Bobby's house because that's supposed to be a place of comfort or something, but mostly he's interested in this room: what used to be Bobby's panic room in the basement, with the iron swapped over to stainless steel, slashes through all the protective wards, breaking rituals done for the rest. He did it himself because he still considers himself a self-made demon, and the holy water and salt glaze he's powerful enough to ignore. All the anti-demon protection has been replaced with updated, more suitable features, like his tray of instruments as big as the desktop where he used to make blessed ammunition.
There's an unpaired inmate on the rack in the middle of the room. Dean has halfway killed her, but the other half will be slow, and he knows how to avoid doing any damage that will speed it along. She's sobbing, quietly, eyes closed and head hung like she doesn't even know she's doing it and from what Dean remembers himself, she probably doesn't. All he cares about is that she still jerks and flinches away when he presses his scalpel idly down through the skin and muscle to her collar bone, draws the tip along to the point of her shoulder, and peels back the bloody layer as if he needs to see what's beneath to know what's there.
His hands are bloody to the wrist but other than that there's nothing on him, his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, well versed in where to stand and how to cut to keep the spray off his boots, his jeans. The hands, though, he likes: his new equivalent to grease under the fingernails. It's also why he sent the text to invite Kira before he even started - it wouldn't do to get his communicator dirty, and she'll probably be hungry. If not, she's certain to be as bored as he is.
Eternity is a good thing to have when planning to destroy a world. In practice, it's a lot of goddamn time to fill.
no subject
Date: 2014-11-15 09:28 pm (UTC)The humming comes to a halt as she opens the door, her expression gaining the beatific air of someone who's just caught the scent of a delicious meal.
"Torture and dinner? Is this a date?" she asks slyly, closing the door behind her before approaching the inmate. She keeps her hands behind her back, leaning in close and sniffing delicately as if the young woman was a fine wine. "Or is it more of a party?"
no subject
Date: 2014-11-20 03:22 am (UTC)Then Kira is there and the demon in his hunter guise straightens, turning until he's not quite facing her, and he does not grin at her like he once would have one of his friends. His smile matches hers: slick like snake oil, polished and confident. Cocky, with a deal with the devil to back it up.
"That depends on you, I think," he teases, stepping back to let her in closer, inspecting the edge of his blade instead without fully looking away from her. "Will you still respect me after?"
no subject
Date: 2014-11-21 08:59 am (UTC)She looks across at him over the top of the woman's head. Her eyes are bright and shining, but not with power; just delight. "I need to touch her to feed, but I don't want to disturb your work. Show me where I can."
Whatever reaction the words have on the prisoner, they prompt a gentle hushing from Kira. "Don't worry, don't worry." she coos, "In a moment, I'm going to take your pain." Just so Dean can offer her some more. Poor lamb.