To Pity a Monster
by Heavens Rebel
Horror/Angst
Rated M
Dean W./Castiel
A Karla inspired AU with a demonic twist.
Demon!Dean, Human!Castiel
I recently watched Misha Collins' movie Karla and it's been stuck in my head ever since, and then, you know, I read this quote and was all – DUDE. FF TIME.
So my goal is to make this abstract, maybe even confusing, so if it's frigging weird as Fitch Cooper (don't. Ask.), then Good!
"You should neither hate nor pity a monster – merely fear it, and do all in your power to make an end of it before it destroys you."
- Larten Crespsley, Cirque du Freak: Killers of the Dawn (pg 118)
"This one. I like this one."
A demon's breath, cold in his ear, twisting into his brain with icicles sharper than a butcher's bloody knife, invading him, invading everything. There's a fire burning somewhere low in his stomach – a warning – but he ignores it, swallowing hard. "As you wish."
He climbs out of the aggressive car, not pausing to admire ti's glossy, reflective exterior as he so often did, and treads towards the young girl sitting alone on the sidewalk, his head low, hands in trench coat pockets.
"Excuse me?" His fists clench from within their fabricy confines.
The girl looks up, heavily-lined eyes sparking with some nameless emotion. Surrounding her is a single backpack, it's edges torn and frayed, and a small pile of paper-back novels with several pages missing. "Yes?" Her voice is higher-pitched than he expects it to be, and a hand rips apart his insides. She flicks her dyed-blue hair out of her face, further signifying her youth.
He glances around first, even though he already knows that there's no way another single, living, breathing soul stands on this desolate street. When he's triple-checked that him and the girl are the only ones, he lurches forward, hand closing around her mouth and a hiss in her ear. "Don't speak."
He half-drags her back to the car, her kicking and yelling piercing his mind. By the time he collapses into the back seat with her, the engine is already revving and the demon is laughing.
"Thank you, Castiel."
~SPN~
He stands to the side, watching with a pained gaze, blue eyes strangely flat, as the demon constricts the sobbing girl with rope around her wrists, her ankles. "If you shut up, this will make everything so much fun."
Eyes of black smile at him.
He doesn't quite remember a time when the demon before him wasn't a demon at all – simply a classic-rock loving mechanic that would hold him (with something better than sex on his mind), and tell him how beautiful he was. Of course, then catches sight of his left eye in the mirror down the hall and all these memories shatter.
He looks away from his demon, his throat closing as the girl begins to scream.
~SPN~
He's on his hands and knees, bright crimson marring everything in his eyesight.
"You're real fucking beautiful, you know that?" A lollipop twirls between the demon's fingers, reminding him of his dead brother.
"Thank you." He's still scrubbing of course, scrubbing away all that red from his brand new, oak-paneled floor.
There's a sudden kiss at his temple, and he stops, holding as still as his quivering muscles will let him. The sponge is pulled from his hand and his face is turned by a single, inhumanly strong finger, blue eyes meeting an endless abyss of black.
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
Cool lips pressed against his, gentle, maybe even a little bit caring, and soon he's being pulled on top of the demon, and the kiss is deepening further until all that's left is teeth and tongue and saliva. Clothes are discarded quickly, into a pile of dress shirts and denim jeans, and the demon's fingertips are like dagggers into the skin of his waist, bruising easily. A part of him is screaming no, telling him that he should really start packing his bags, but everything else overrides that feeling just as quickly.
Soon, he's a panting mess beneath the demon, all on fire inside. The demon merely smiles and traces his face with a touch lighter than a butterfly's wings.
"Do me a favor?"
"Anything."
" . . . Take care of the body for me."
~SPN~
Shovelfuls of dirt are beginning to seem entirely endless. The demon's in the bed of the truck, eyes closed, but he knows he's awake because his breathing is far too shallow for him not to be.
"Make sure you salt her first."
The bitches bones won't seem to burn.
~SPN~
There's a sharp popping in his ears as hands close tightly around his neck, ebony eyes alive with rage. "I told you not to speak."
~SPN~
"How's Dean?"
"Fine, Father." A croak back.
"How's your cold?"
" . . . I'm getting over it."
Starring at the mass of purple in the shape of the demon's fingers in the mirror.
~SPN~
He's not sure how, but something inside him snapped.
A few dozen words of Latin later, and his demon isn't a demon anymore, but a still-as-stone silhouette of what was once a man, in a heap on the floor.
He can't bring himself to cry. He can't even bring himself to care.
He's cradling his broken wrist carefully, as he opens the kitchen cabinet, a prayer being whispered into the shock-silenced air. "Lord forgive me for I have sinned."
He takes extra care to salt the bones first.
~SPN~
The sound of fire engines clamor in his eardrums as he drives, one-handed, down a road that doesn't exist.