Inner Beauty

Demon!Sam/Demon!Dean

Rated: NC-17

Okay, so after watching some really disturbing episodes of Medium, this came into my head. I'm making no excuses for myself – I am definitely going to hell.

Warnings: Oh God…um…rape. Torture. Graphic, GRAPHIC, violence. Wincest of the Sam/Dean variety. Demon!boys. No redeeming factors whatsoever. PLEASE read with caution, 'kay? (:

Summary: Dean gets to play, and Sam gets to watch. They do this every night, and it's not going to get old.

She's beautiful. With wide, innocent green eyes and a fiery mane of red-brown hair, and mile-long legs that are just the most gorgeous shade of golden tan, she's a goddess. A sight to behold, and worthy of any man's attention and woman's jealousy.

Dean knows how to make her just that little bit prettier.

He focuses on her lips first. They're gorgeous and luscious and full – she must have some Hispanic origin in there, because they certainly aren't fake – and she's painted them purple and shiny for the occasion of going out with her girlfriends. He kneels down, a Cheshire cat smile on his face as he kisses her, long and slow and teasing. She moans at first when he takes her bottom lip in his mouth and tugs, pulls her so she's kneeling, because she's a submissive little wildcat, all sheathed claws and mane and curling mouth. He's got a knife in the hand behind his back, but she doesn't need to know that. Not yet, anyway.

She whimpers a little when he bites down, tugging just a little more, so it's more pain than pleasure now, and he can feel it, vibrating in the most sensuous caress right in his very soul. The need, the desire to see blood and to have it be shed by his hand. Dean bites clean through her lip, teeth that are just a little too sharp piercing her easily, and she squeals and tries to pull away. He doesn't let her – the choice it to either retreat or lose her lip, and the saline smell of tears stings at his nose when she decides to wait the pain out, to hope he stops.

He won't stop. He licks at her broken skin like a cat at mother's milk, drinking it down and she doesn't move, because she's afraid now. He can smell her fear like the sweetest scent of vanilla and wood spice, of blood and sex and chocolate, and it makes the need in him grow until he's growling with it, just under his breath for now because she's not quite sure what to make of him yet, and he doesn't want to give the game away so easily.

He stands up, and she still doesn't move. Her bottom lip bears his bite, a clean cut straight through that will scar if he lets her live long enough to let it. It's then, that he draws the knife out, holding the curved scimitar-like blade in front of him and examining it in the dim glow of the lights outside. She hasn't seen it yet – his back is turned.

Maybe scimitar is the wrong word. Yes; it looks more like a scythe.

He twirls it in his palm, and the blade is so sharp he can feel it cut him even though it doesn't touch him. He shivers when his blood spills over, eyes flickering into the corner of the room, to something she hasn't seen yet.

Sammy will be able to smell the blood.

But now is not the time to get distracted, because Dean has work to do and he's going to do it. He turns around, not bothering to hide the blade now as he holds it by his side, his bleeding arm oozing the lifeblood that runs down his wrist now, staining his skin and the blade he holds. Her beautiful green eyes widen, and she tries to move away, but she can't. Dean made sure of that.

"Oh my God…" Her whimper is cut short when Dean is suddenly there, lightning fast, holding the tip of his blade against her broken lip for silence. She swallows, tears in her eyes as they meet his, soulless and abyss-black.

"Shh," he purrs, like the spider to the fly, blinking away the ochre filter until there's just that alluring green again, that innocent humanity that he wears so well, and he smiles at her like he's the kindly next door neighbor, asking to borrow some milk or flour. "You have to be quiet, sweetheart. We don't want a lot of noise." She whimpers again as his eyes flicker, this time to another corner, and she knows now that they're not alone. Dean stands, twirling the blade again, this time cutting his other wrist in a deliberate move, a taunt for Sammy to come forward and drink, and play, and just below the edge of human hearing, there's a snarl.

Dean smirks, and looks down at the girl again. He can't remember her name. Won't after this.

She's so fucking pretty…

He wants to go for her eyes, because they're so damn pretty and innocent, and he wants to rip them out. Or…maybe just slice at them until they're bleeding, and make her cry like the statue of Mary…bloody tears would go beautifully with her complexion. He kneels down again, his stare so intent upon her face that he doesn't quite notice her moving her arm, grabbing the stiletto that could kill a man residing at her heel. She moves quickly, but he's quicker, catching her arm in a bone-crushing grip, halting the tip of her shoe an inch from his temple.

The snarl that comes then is louder.

"Ah, ah, ah, sweetheart," he says, like a parent affectionately mocking a child. He turns to look at the shoe, plucking it from her limp grip now, and tosses it away. "You're going to have to behave, or I'll restrain you." His voice is whisper soft, and it feels like smoke and ash against her skin. The beautiful call he had used luring her in was gone now – now, it was just fire and ash and brimstone and glorious death.

He will go for her hair, he thinks. He takes the blade, and holds her chin steady like he is merely examining her, before he slides the scythe up over her ear, against her head and pressing, dangerously close to cutting her. In fact, he does a little, and she jerks in his grip at the pain of it as he slides the blade up, hacking off one side of her fiery mane. The hair falls to the ground like feathers, and Dean smirks a little, watching it litter the floor. He picks up a chunk of her hair, watching it again, and it begins to burn in his grip. The smell is unpleasant and she wrinkles her nose, eyes watering and blood running down the side of her face.

Dean smiles, and closes his eyes, and breathes in. She smells like a bar and perfume, and rust. His eyes are black when they open again – he knows they are – and he leans in for a taste. She jerks away but his hold is strong, tongue just touching the wound on the side of her head, testing around it like he knows it's sensitive before dipping in for a proper sample. The flavor explodes on his tongue, forceful enough that he's dizzy with it, and he moans into what's left of her hair, gripping it tightly in his hand as he pulls. She screams when he pulls out another chunk of hair, the wound on her lip reopening as she bites it to muffle her shout, because she remembers what he said about noise, and she's still stupidly hopeful that he's not crazy enough to kill her. She'll be fine as long as she's alive.

Her eyes are glazed with pain and tears. It makes them brighter, and Dean can't help himself. He takes a good long look at those grassy eyes, framed with thick mascara and eye shadow the same color as her lipstick, and he smiles. The blade slides easily into her skin above her eye, and he cuts shallowly, angling it so the blood runs perfectly down the inside of her straight button-nose, and frames her mouth perfectly. Sammy always loves it when he paints them up like this. She's so beautiful.

She's crying, and the tears are mixing with the blood, messing with his designs. He wishes he had tools precise enough for proper removal of the tear ducts, but that's for another time.

His cock is hard and ready in his jeans, ready to slather himself in this bitch's blood and let Sammy have his turn. But he's not quite done yet – she has a glorious body. Small, pert breasts and no stomach to speak of, and her legs…all just hidden under a skin-tight purple and golden dress that's gorgeous on her, and he cuts it off with one clean cut. She whimpers once more as it falls around her, and that sound is really starting to annoy Dean. He wants to silence her, but again, his tools at hand are too simple. Sammy has no patience for finesse.

She's kneeling in a pool of purple and gold and red. The colors of the Holy Spirit. They're beautiful, and Dean wants to drown in them, but he has a better way to die right in front of him. Her breasts heave with every sob, her frame shuddering, because she wants to run – Dean can see it in every tense muscle covering her lithe, slim body – but she can't, because the demon brothers won't let her. She's trapped and she's theirs for the night.

They don't intend for her to last that long.

Dean runs the tip of his blade up her neck and chin, forcing her to raise her head. The blade leaves a thin line of blood behind that runs down her neck, between her breasts and pools in her belly button, and she's blinking rapidly every now and again to stop herself being blinded by her own blood, but head wounds bleed a lot. She's got no hope for it.

He leans in to inhale her scent again. Fear, pain, anxiety and such an intoxicating amount of endorphins that it damn near makes Dean collapse. The demon leans in and bites at her neck, hard enough to break through her skin at the same time he slides the knife down her chest, caressing her left breast as he bites her and drinks down her blood. She tastes like cinnamon and apple crisp, and he savors her with a low moan-growl that is anything but human, riding her knee and the top of her thigh as he grinds his hard cock against her silky skin. She whimpers when she realizes just exactly he's going to add to the list of things he'll do to her.

Sam is snarling in the corner. He loves this; loves every second of it – how much his brother loves doing this, and loves performing for him – would do it three times a night if they could get away with it.

Dean knows Sam is watching – hell, it was his idea – and he wants to make this good for Sammy, because really, Dean is up here having all the fun and that's not very fair. "Sweetheart, what did I say about being quiet?" he asks, withdrawing enough to speak as her blood becomes a warm molasses in his throat, dripping down sickly and sweet. He smiles at her and his teeth are stained with blood. "If you don't learn to be quiet, I'm going to have to silence you myself and I'd rather you were alive for this."

She swallows, doesn't know whether she'd rather die or live, but says nothing. Dean smiles again.

"There you go. Good girl," he coos, brushing what remains of her hair from her face, and then his blade is suddenly there, hard and unforgiving as it slides right into the side of her breast. She gasps; face twisted in pain as he digs in, just shy of piercing her ribcage. Her breathing is getting faster and her heart flutters like a hummingbird's wings. His other hand catches the blood that drips down, mixing with his own, and he makes her body into a canvas, finger-painting all sorts of warding symbols and sigils that, ever since the Winchester rise to power, have meant nothing against them. Salt and holy water don't work, and they never will.

She's crying and shuddering and sobbing, and he's getting tired of this game, now. He wants to fuck her. Wants to feel her clench in pain when he slides in and fucks her and claws at her, bites and slashes at her. He looks to Sammy for permission, and just out of the corner of his eye, he sees his brother nod, and breathes a sigh of relief.

He's already naked. Has been from the get-go, because they were here for sex, and sex is what he's going to give her.

He presses her thighs apart with the handle of his knife, manhandles her with his mind so that she's on all fours, facing away from Sammy's corner. She's shuddering and shivering and sighing and making so much noise, and it's hurting Sammy's ears – he can feel that. Bitch needs to learn to keep quiet.

He kneels up behind her, sees her back as a completely blank canvas to work with, and thrusts in without a thought. She chokes on her scream when he gags her with a second knife, this one smaller, that cuts her beautiful Hispanic lips on the entrance, and he wraps it around her head so she can't spit it out. She's choking on her own blood where she can't control her tongue enough to avoid the knife, and he's laughing as he fucks her, mounting her like an animal, brutal with it because it's always good when it's hard and fast and dirty.

Dean loses all sense of finesse, then. He slashes and hacks at her with the single-minded purpose that she's dead by the time he comes. She whines and screams and she's swallowing her own blood, and there's something so filthy-wrong about that, and it makes the demon shiver with pleasure, loving the contract-clench of her muscles, spasming in pain when he dips the knife against her shoulder, cuts deep in one stroke that goes to the bone, marking a giant cross on her back, and he laughs at the irony of it. She's praying – he can feel it like an itch under his skin, but he doesn't care, because things like that can't hurt him anymore.

He leans forward, gets a hand around her throat, and tilts her head back so that she can't swallow easily. He puts pressure on her larynx so even moving her throat muscles is the hardest damn thing she's ever done in her life, and she's crying and begging and sobbing, pleading for mercy, but that's the thing – there is no mercy with demons.

By the time she chokes on her last breath, he's just about ready to come or die. He pulls out of her, lets her limp body collapse on to the floor, and kneels instead by her head. The knife slips right out through her upper lip, blood pooling out of her mouth, and it's still warm when Dean thrusts in, moaning at the wetness of her blood in her mouth as it squelches and paints his cock, and he grabs the dead remaining chunks of her hair, fucking her mouth until he comes. He stills for a long moment, watching her dead eyes watch him, before pulling out, breathing hard, sweaty and covered in blood, and leans down to pet her hair.

"Good girl," he purrs, nuzzling into the bite mark he left behind, before he's thrown back against the wall, away from his kill. He growls, struggling, eyes black and out for blood, but Sammy's there, suddenly, all beautiful exposed skin and yellow, glowing eyes and murderous, dangerous aura.

Dean purrs in submission, baring his throat for his brother, an advantage that Sam takes immediately, pressing his hand against Dean's neck as he kisses his brother, fucking Dean's mouth with his tongue. Dean tastes like her blood, and it's fucking delicious, and the older demon sighs into Sammy's mouth, pliant and willing and so turned on it's unreal.

Sam's just as brutal with Dean as Dean had been with the girl – Maria, he suddenly remembers. She was called Maria. He throws his brother onto the bed and pins him there with his mind, and Dean just lays back and takes it because they both know who's really in charge when they're like this, and Sam's so ready to fuck his brother in oblivion that the only preparation he uses is to take his own turn in Maria's mouth, liberally slicking his cock with her blood and Dean's come, before he's fucking into his brother. Dean arches for him, thrusting his hips back onto Sam's cock like the wanton slut he is for it, and there's no words, because Sam doesn't like much sound, because the demons don't need words to communicate, and Dean grabs for Sam's head once his little brother lets him free, biting into Sam's mouth and tasting his own blood, and Dean moans as Sam fucks into him, because even when the need that's always deep down in his gut is satisfied, he'll always want Sam. Sam is beautiful, and Sam is perfect.

Sam doesn't need any work. His black soul is the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen.