TORTURE, SUPERNATURAL

ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ-ᴏɴᴇ. ʙʟᴏᴏᴅꜱʜᴇᴅ

The fire is still burning when I land back in my room, though it feels distant, like a fading heartbeat. 

I collapse to my knees, the cold, hard floor unforgiving beneath me. The air is warm, but it presses down on my lungs like a heavy, suffocating weight. My breaths come fast and shallow—ragged gasps that tear at my chest—and for several long moments, I can't move. I am trapped in the aftermath, caught between the world I just left and this one I have returned to.

My fingers claw at the floorboards, searching for something to hold onto, something solid to anchor me. But the ground beneath my hands is just cold wood, indifferent and unyielding. It takes far longer than I expect for my mind and body to sync—to realize I am no longer underground in that dank, blood-soaked chamber. The heavy stench of burnt flesh and iron is gone, replaced by the faint, comforting scent of woodsmoke and old stone. And my hands are empty now. The knife—silver bone blade I used—is gone, vanished the moment Crowley pulled me away.

I am shaking. No, trembling, shuddering uncontrollably from my core outwards, as if the nightmare I just lived is trying to shatter me from the inside.

I force myself onto hands and knees, crawling weakly toward the bed like a broken thing. My legs feel hollow and numb, muscles limp and useless. Somehow, I manage to pull myself up, dragging my trembling body onto the mattress. I curl in on myself tightly, trying to disappear into a small, defenseless ball. My skin itches and pulls uncomfortably beneath my clothes, as if the fabric is a cage. My breath refuses to settle into a steady rhythm, jerking in spasms that make my head spin.

Crowley's voice echoes behind my eyes—smooth, mocking, lingering like a dark perfume. "My little Hellfire angel," he calls me, like some twisted pet.

My fists go to my mouth. I bite down hard, hard enough to draw blood from my tongue. I need to feel something else, anything but the scream clawing its way up my throat—something physical and raw to drown out the mental chaos.

What have I done?

I didn't kill him. But part of me wanted to. The part I keep buried deep and locked away, the part that whispers in the dark, telling me it is right. Justified. Necessary. That cold, scorched part sounds suspiciously like Crowley's voice—sharp and unforgiving.

I curl tighter, trying to suffocate those thoughts beneath layers of muscle and bone.

I don't want to enjoy it. Don't want to admit it. But there is a dark, twisted power in watching him bleed, in having control over that moment. And that scares me more than any demon or ghost ever could.

Suddenly, I push myself upright and stagger toward the mirror hanging on the far wall. The reflection that meets me is unfamiliar—my cheeks flushed and streaked, my eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. My hands are smeared with blood, the stain dark and sticky across the pale skin and the worn fabric of my jacket.

Without thinking, I rip the jacket off and toss it onto the floor, then peel off my shirt. My fingers tremble violently as I try to scrub the blood away, as if washing the stain off my skin will wash the guilt from my soul.

I look like her. Like my mother—cold, fierce, capable. But unlike her, I am breaking. I am cracking beneath the weight of everything I am becoming.

She never falters. Never questions herself. And yet here I am, shaking and raw.

I wipe at my face uselessly. The tears come in hot, salty streams, relentless and merciless. I sink back onto the bed, letting them fall freely.

What would Sam say if he saw me now? Would he understand what I've done? Would he forgive me for it?

I sob harder, because I'm not sure I could ever forgive myself.

After what feels like hours, I slowly sit up again and turn my eyes to the fire. The flames dance lazily, the embers glowing faintly in the darkened room. My muscles ache, my hands throb raw, and my throat is sore from the harsh silence I keep.

And still, Crowley hasn't returned.

He's left me alone with the aftermath—the guilt, the shame—the mirror he holds up for me to see myself as I truly am.

I whisper to the dying fire, voice cracking and small, "Am I becoming one of them?"

A single pop echoes from the hearth. Nothing else. But the silence afterward feels heavier, like something unseen is listening—waiting.

I curl back into myself on the bed, eyes locked on the smoldering coals as the fire dwindles to ash.

I don't sleep. I'm not sure I'll ever sleep again.

When dawn creeps through the curtains, I am still there, staring into the cold embers, wondering if a piece of my soul has been left behind in that dungeon.

And if Crowley has it now, tucked away in his pocket like a dark souvenir.

Like a prize.