TORTURE, SUPERNATURAL

ɴɪɴᴇᴛᴇᴇɴ. ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇ

I am stuck in the room for days.

At first, I try to keep track of time. Counting meals, pacing patterns, watching the fire rise and fall like a cruel heartbeat. But eventually, it all blurs. Hours stretch endlessly, elastic and unbearable. I wander the edges of the room like a prisoner memorizing the blueprint of their cage.

The gilded walls mock me. Soft bed, plush armchair, warm fire—all of it a farce. Comfort, dressed up as confinement. And yet, it's working. I can feel myself withering in here. Peeling away like bark from a dead tree.

I think of Sam. Of Dean. Of their gruff voices and relentless footsteps, of their banter and fury and loyalty. I don't think of my mother. She would trust that I know what I'm doing, even if I don't. She trained me to rely on instinct. And right now, that instinct is screaming into a vacuum.

So, instead, I give my thoughts to the Winchesters. I play out scenes in my mind like films projected on smoke. Battles with Lucifer. Dean shooting a version of the Colt that works into his chest. Sam stepping in front of me, shielding me, bleeding for me.

Sometimes I imagine myself fighting beside them, shoulder to shoulder, and Sam looks at me—really looks—and in that silent nod, I feel it. That I am safe.

I close my eyes and I swear I can feel his warmth on my skin. The ghost of his hands—steady, strong—tracing mine as he fixed them. I hadn't realized how much I missed being touched without cruelty. The memory of his calloused fingertips brushing mine sends heat pooling low in my stomach.

I miss him. It's an ache I didn't expect. It catches me off guard, blooming deep in my chest, somewhere just behind my ribs.

I want to see him again. Not because I need him, but because... because part of me still burns when I think of him. When I remember the way he said my name. The way he looked like he wanted to fix things he couldn't even name.

And it makes me feel stupid.

I shove the thought away and glance around the room again. The hundredth time today. Still no books. No TV. Nothing to occupy me except the bed, the closet of garments I won't wear, and the ever-burning fireplace.

This isn't a room. It's psychological warfare wrapped in velvet. A new kind of Hell.

I haven't seen Crowley since the other night. No smug quips, no dark glances, no tie pulling taut across my wrists. Nothing.

What does the King of Hell do with his spare time, anyway? Beyond torturing souls, making deals, sipping Scotch and looking far too pleased with himself?

Why hasn't he returned? Why hasn't he stormed in, demanding obedience or pain or blood? I half expect him to barge through the door, smirking, tie in hand. But all I get is silence.

The only company I receive are the servants who bring my food—twice a day, perfectly timed, always hot, always just enough. They don't speak beyond a clipped "Good morning" or "Good evening", and they vanish before I can ask even a single question.

It's suffocating.

I need air. I need motion. I need to run until my lungs burn and my legs give out. I need to hunt, to fight. Sitting still is not in my nature. And here, I am a knife left to rust.

I lie on the bed and close my eyes, picturing what I'm missing. What I could be doing. The lives I might be saving. The children huddled in closets, the families whispering prayers into the darkness, hoping for a miracle. I should be there. I should be helping them.

I start biting my lip, hard enough to draw blood, just to keep from screaming. I taste salt, and I don't know if it's blood or tears.

Then—a sudden knock.

A sharp thud at the door slices through my spiral.

I shoot upright, frowning. It's not time for food.

I pad to the door and crack it open slowly, heart hammering.

"Hello, darling."

Crowley.

He leans casually in the doorway, grinning like a cat that's just broken into a birdcage. His suit is immaculate, dark as ever, and his eyes flash with amusement.

My mouth opens—then snaps shut.

I narrow my eyes, arms folding across my chest like a barrier. "Where the hell have you been?"

He lifts a brow, lips quirking. "Missed me, have you?" He winks, infuriatingly smug.

I bristle. "Don't flatter yourself."

Before I can say another word, he pushes past me, brushing my shoulder with deliberate pressure as he strides into the room like he owns the air.

Which, technically, he might.

His gaze sweeps the space, taking in the disheveled bed, the upturned chair, the torn strip of fabric I've been using to mark days. He turns to me, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

"If you must know, I've been tracking someone," he says, walking toward the fire.

"Who?" I demand.

"James Mortem Bailey," he says, slowly, like he's letting the name roll off his tongue for dramatic effect.

Something cold coils in my gut. "Why are you telling me this?"

Crowley turns to face me fully now, that predator grin stretching wider. "Because, dearest Aderyn, our little spat the other day made me realize something... You are woefully uninformed about what I actually do."

I scoff. "I'm not ignorant."

"Oh, no, no," he says with mock sincerity, rubbing his chin. "Ignorance implies innocence. Yours is more..." He grins wider. "Stupidity. Yes. That's more accurate."

I shoot him a glare that could melt iron, but I don't bite back. I can't win this game with words, not when he controls the board.

I look down at my clenched fists, veins tight under my skin. When I glance back up, Crowley's inspecting the mess of the bed again. With a flick of his fingers, the sheets smooth themselves out. Another flick, and the room is pristine. Trays gone. Crumpled garments vanished. The very air feels cleaner.

I stumble back a step, heart racing. I'll never get used to that kind of power.

"I don't want to know what you do," I mutter, voice thick.

I walk over to the bed and deliberately crumple the sheets he just fixed, readjusting the pillows, ruining the symmetry. His jaw twitches.

Petty? Yes. Worth it? Also yes.

Crowley watches me like I'm a particularly intriguing riddle. When our eyes meet, his smile spreads—slow and dangerous, drenched in pride and something darker.

My stomach drops.

I shake my head before the words even come out of his mouth. Because I know. I know what he's about to say.

"You want me to come with you," I whisper. "You want to... show me."

He says nothing. Just lets the silence stretch, letting me fill it with my worst thoughts.

"I'm not going," I snap. "I'm not going to watch you destroy someone."

Crowley steps forward, the space between us closing like a trap. "Oh, but you will."

"No," I say again, backpedaling. "I won't. I don't want this—"

"Oh, darling," he interrupts, his voice a velvet snare. "You're not coming to watch."

I freeze.

"You're coming to learn."

He lifts his fingers, gives me a final, smug little wink—

—and clicks.

Darkness swallows the room whole.