Supernatural Sister Imagines

Imagine #45: Sanity

This imagine is dedicated to candyangel24

Imagine: you are kidnapped by demons and tortured daily, and Sam and Dean go insane trying to get you back.

Age: 16

A/N: This chapter is going to be written a bit differently than some of my others so let me know what you guys think :/

     When Dean woke up on that one December morning-- that stupid December morning-- the first thing to register in his mind was how cold the place where you slept beside him was. The second thing was that his arms, which were supposed to be holding you closely, were empty.

     He sat straight up in his bed, and he didn't even need to look around the room for you, check the bathroom for you, the pounding of his heart in his chest and the sinking feeling of dread in his stomach told him everything he needed to know.

     You were gone.

     The brothers spent days searching for you, their sanity all but expunged in their haste to find their baby girl, but it was like you had disappeared from the world completely.

     Little did they know, you hadn't. You were very much alive, and very much angered.

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     Demons.

     Like ice the word felt in my head as I internally raged, coming to in a room of blackened eyes and sharp knives. Where I should've been afraid, I was angry, and simply could not wait the moment when they made a mistake and I got the chance to kill them.

     "Ah, Y/n, you're awake." One of the two, a male with a balding head and a crisp black suit, looked over, noticing my state of consciousness and coming toward me. The female with blonde hair and a pantsuit followed.

     "Who are you?" I snarled, yanking at my bonds. My hands were tied above my head, my feet spread apart and tied below me, my body sat upon an elevated table, angled to the floor. I had been stripped of my clothes save for my undergarments, my porcelain skin ripe and clean, waiting for the cold kiss of a knife.

     "We're demons, love." The female spoke, and I realized that both of them had thick British accents, meaning Crowley did this, meaning I was all the more pissed.

     "No shit, Sherlock," I snapped, and the two seemed surprised at my ferocity, "What's you're names? After I kill you, I'd like to report the death to Crowley so he can be disappointed in you asshats."

     "Bartholomew," Said the male abruptly, annoyance tracing his tone, "That's Adrianna."

     "Wonderful," Sarcasm dripped from my voice like a sieve, "Shall I call you Bart, or Barry?"

    "Either works." Barry sneered back, "You won't have much time for talking."

     "And why would that be?"

     "Because our orders from Crowley are clear," Adrianna spoke up from where she was drifting lazily around the table that sported tens of knives, her hand floating around above them before she decided on one featuring a long, pristinely cut, gleaming blade, polished to perfection, "We put you in agony, everyday, until you are begging to die. But then, instead of giving you that sweet release, that death you want so bad, we'll call your brothers. We'll tell them were you are and we'll wait for them to come to the rescue and you'll watch them die in front of you. Cause let me tell you something, dear," Adrianna stopped before me, leaning down so that her soft red lips were mere inches from my ear, "Crowley wants you to suffer."