Wings Of Onyx (castiel x reader)

Alastair

You took in your surroundings. You tried moving your head but could barely turn it 20° to the side. A leather band reached around your forehead that kept your head strapped to the to the table,  and your wrists and ankles were tightly bound in the same fashion. Your arms were outstretched, your feet bound together, all fastened down as if you were being prepared for crucifixion on a metal table. After straining to free yourself for five straight minutes, you gave up and stared up at the ceiling. You let your muscles relax for a bit while you wondered who had incarcerated you.

The Who actually wasn't what was bothering you so much as the Why. As far as you were concerned, you didn't know any demons personally. You stayed away from them for the most part except for the occasional excorcisms you performed with Mason. You knew a lot of hunters who liked to torture demons before excorcising them, but there was a greater chance of making enemies that way if they ever returned and crossed paths with you again. It's not that you couldn't handle torturing monsters, it's that you were smart enough not to make them more trouble than they were worth.

This is why I can't wrap my head around what demon would possibly-

Your thoughts were interrupted when the door was pushed in. In walked a peculiar demon whose host vessel had a short beard and long face. Their eyes flickered white for a moment, (white? It was usually black, you thought) then back to their original hue. It's voice was calm and sardonic, and almost nasal. "Sleep well, I presume?"

"Who the hell are you?"

He drawled, "Right, you wouldn't know. Your buddy Dean-o was my protégé when he took a little trip downstairs a while back. If you ever see the Winchesters again ask them how hell was, will you? Anyway, name's Alastair. Grand torturer of Hell. I know, sounds corny. Don't wear it out..." He walked grimly over to a smaller table with an array of wicked looking devices and weapons.  "Let's begin, shall we?" The demon picked up a ghastly looking knife and casually made his way over to the table your were secured to. You caught an eyefull of the grisly blade and immediately tensed up against your bonds. You were shaking now, struggling to free yourself. Alastair smirked at your paltry attempts. He was a sadist, of course. He was going to enjoy carving you up and breaking you. You shivered as he pressed the cold blade to your skin. He traced it along your arm without cutting into you at first, making you shake with anticipation of the pain you would soon feel and more fear than you felt in a long time. You shut your eyes and waited in silence. You waited,

and waited,

and waited,

and waited.

--

You screamed in pain. The blade had begun to carve into your arm. You opened your eyes to peer at your arm as carmine liquid began to drip, drip, drip down your skin. He sliced across your stomach, not too deep but deep enough to bleed, then cut through the fabric of your jeans staining them with red. He didn't want you bleeding out though, so he couldn't get too creative with the torture or you would be dead. He needed you alive. The drops of warm blood gone cold felt like little ants crawling down your arm, as were the hot tears that cooled as they rolled down the sides of your face. You heard the tap, tap of two tears that had hit the table you were on. Your vision was tinged red at the corners.

"Why are you doing this," you sputtered. He was holding the knife to the side that now was coated with the thick red liquid that he had drained from your body from the lacerating.

"I figure you're well enough acquaintanced with Sam and Dean that they'll come after you, and I want them dead."

"You're wrong. I don't matter to them." A part of you did believe this.

"Maybe not to them, but that sanctimonius, fanatical prick Castiel seems to care about you. And the Winchesters would be willing to do almost anything for their pet angel, who's going to lead them right to you."

"Then what's the point of torturing me if you're only after the Winchesters?"

"Well there's no fun in coming up to this arctic craphole of a planet and leaving the comforting sounds of sizzling flesh in Hell if I'm not to continue carrying out my duties as the Grand Inquisitor Downstairs. Truth is, I loathe this place. It's chilly. No stink of blood or the wet flap of flayed skin. I don't know how humans bear it. Seeing the broken faces of my clients while I tear them to pieces is one of the only reasons jolly old St. Alastair comes down anyone's chimney anymore."

This guy's a total fruit loop. He calls his victims "clients"? You thought. The more shallow cuts were starting to sting.

"So you get your freak on by torturing people, is that it?"

"Something like that, sure."  He then fashioned tourniquets out of cloth for your  deeper wounds so you wouldn't die on him before the next torture session. 

"So I'll see you back in class, bright and early tomorrow," the psychopath promised and waltzed out the iron door, shutting it behind him, leaving you alone with only your thoughts for company.

You sent up a silent prayer. Castiel... Please come for me.

((Word count: 925))