"I could have killed you a hundred times today, but this..." Azazel exhaled breathe deeply from John's lungs, enjoying the sensation. There was something sickly satisfying about John's frame that Azazel liked. It was muscular, felt powerful for a human body, built over a long, hard life and tempered by mortal aging. This and he had to admit John was a fine looking fella; something that both his boys had inherited. He steered his new host towards the window, standing just aside of Dean who was twitching with tension. He liked that. "...This is worth the wait." Dean refrained from commenting, the indignation of that information was bad enough without adding to it himself, breaking with the anger and mouthing off to this son of a bitch. The ache in his muscles from straining against the force that was holding him in place was near agony, and it was starting to show in his face. Azazel turned to look at him, admire the pain in the elder sons expression, the almost child-like hunger to inflict damage, but also the desperation. Because despite the want to kill him, he knew whose body he was wearing, and he doubted either was willing to murder their father for the sake of revenge. For that fact, he desired to push it, to make Dean frantic with rage. "Yer dad, he's in here with me. Trapped inside his own meat suit. He says 'hi', by the way..." Dean couldn't mask his concern, it crept across his brow and made his jaw tense more than anger ever could. He wanted to lash out, rip that piss-eyed fucker out of john and send him packing for the demon-after life. A shiver of pleasure ran down Azazel borrowed spine, human bodily chemicals were always so enjoyable: Adrenaline, especially, but there were others also. "...He's gonna tear you apart. He's gonna taste the iron in your blood!" Dean muttered a low 'let him go' through gritted teeth, his hatred brewing in the pit of his stomach. The words made him feel sick, not because of the threat of harm, but because Azazel would no doubt let John live with the images, the scarring of what HIS hands had done to his own sons. John would be the one to wash the blood off his hands, not Azazel. Their blood: His boys blood. Maybe even have to bury his children, too.
Sam watched with much less self control as his older brother, his breathing heavy, erratic, betraying his uncontrollable and seemingly unlimited amount of hatred towards the thing driving their dad. His bruised face was scrunched up into an expression that said were he unbound for just a second, he might not hesitate to pull the trigger. He wanted to swear, to threaten that if he even touched Dean - but he knew how that would go. Dean would tell him to shut the hell up, and it would further amuse the hell-bitch. It would get him nowhere, and if by fluke Azazel decided he'd oblige him, he doubted he'd even be able to muster the sense of direction to accurately lunge for the colt. The blows to the face he'd taken and the subsequent bruising affected his awareness greatly. He could hardly concentrate.
"Why is it I always hear that line from you people?"
Azazel asked calmly, smirking painfully slowly before turning from Dean, wandering closer to Sam, almost inspecting him like a judging at a dog show.
"Let him go. Surely you boys have figured it doesn't go down that way by now, what do you expect, exactly; for me to throw my hands up – well, your fathers hands - and oblige?"
Another amused chuckle as he studied the younger brother. Taller, though, he noticed; a little bigger, generally. He imagined it might be quite a thrill to drive him, like a bigger and younger version of John, with more responsive chemicals. Sam didn't look at him, instead he tilted his head up and starred at the ceiling, tried to convince himself he wasn't being looked at. The way Azazel was studying him made him feel naked, and the fact those eyes were his father's (if not his father's colour) made him feel relatively sick. Azazel liked how temperamental Sam was, because it conflicted nicely with Deans 'Solid as a rock' self control and stubborn front. Sam was a lot easier to break, easier to antagonise, which made him fun, but not half as satisfying in the end. He was a 'quick fix' perhaps. Dean was the prize, something worth aiming for. Sam was like shooting at ducks – amusing, and ultimately still a kill, but dean was a fucking cougar – harder to track, harder to hunt, but jizz-in-your-pants satisfying when you got him. He noticed neither of the boys answered him. How Rude.
"No, really boys, what is it you're expecting?"
"Can we just get this over with 'cos I'm getting real tired of the monologue-ing?"
Dean interjected, rolling his head back against the wall, mocking boredom. In actual fact he did hate the monologues. The self-important rants you think is a media invention to make the climax of a villains downfall that little bit longer and more engaging but by-fuck did Dean wish that was true. No, they did like to talk. And No, they never learnt. Azazel turned back to Dean, seeing his words more of a challenge than an insult, the fire in dean was something he'd enjoy squeezing out of him. Now he'd gotten to the 'bored now' stage with Dean, it would make what he planned to do with him just that much more horrifying for the three involved. He had to stop himself laughing at Dean's request as an informed john screamed in his head at his sons stupidity. Strolling back, in no rush to get into it, he had all the time in the world with these two. No one to burst in and rescue the: no one who could manage it anyway. Smiling he stopped before him and took a moment to admire him, admire the resistance and the strength. Admire it because it wouldn't be there when he was done.
"Okay, Dean..." He began, his voice slow and deep as his eyes dropped from Deans to Dean's lips, and he moistened his own, stepping just a little bit closer and leant into him slightly and tilted his head, smiling a little. "...As you wish."