Work Text:
"The Hundred-Handed Prince," the demon says, dropping to one knee -- although her host doesn't look down, doesn't show any sign of respect, not with the smug gleam in her eyes that are still meeting Sam's.
Dean snarls, wraps one hand in her hair and pushes her forward until her forehead touches the ground. "You'll learn respect or we'll kill you," he says, feeling the promise of death start to thrum in his veins. His fingers twitch, ache for cold, solid steel, just as his throat goes dry with need for hot, rich demon blood.
The demon doesn't show any sign of discomfort, not a sound of it in the way she laughs and lets her body go limp under Dean's hold. "Would you prefer I call him the Lord of Thorns?" she asks. "Or just boy king, as the rest do, a name you seem to hate even more?"
Dean, Sam says. Dean looks at his brother, relaxes when he sees the same vicious cruelty in Sam's eyes that Dean's feeling. Sam's not going to let this demon get away with anything, that's clear to see, and Dean grins, lets go of the demon and steps back, content to see what Sam does next.
"Respect is earned," the demon says, resting her chin on her hands, elbows on the floor. The curve of her host's back is almost obscene, the spread of her ass right in front of Dean. Maybe she thinks she's tempting him, putting herself on display like that, but Dean will never want anyone -- human, demon, or other -- the way he wants Sam. "Isn't that what the humans say? Earned and not demanded, earned and not freely given away. What have you done to earn my respect, Samuel Winchester? What have you done that your brother thinks is worthy of respect from one of Azazel's children?"
Sam's eyes narrow; Dean sees his brother's nostrils flare, scenting the demon. Azazel -- the one who killed their mother, the one who picked Sam and set them on this course in the very beginning, the one who died wearing their father's body. Dean wants to see this one beg for death.
One of Azazel's, Sam murmurs. A child facing off against his chosen. Not the smartest of children, I think.
I like the names, though, Dean reluctantly admits. Lord of Thorns, whatever, but you can be a prickly bastard -- especially when you don't shave, and Dean has to pause for Sam to laugh, there, but the Hundred-Handed Prince. Christ, think of what you could do to me with a hundred hands. You'd kill me. You've come fucking close with just two.
Sam grins. A hundred might be overkill, Sam points out. Five or six would be more useful, especially if I could trade in the rest for another mouth.
Dean makes a noise deep in his throat, thinking of it. Sam eating him out and sucking his dick, fingers in Dean's mouth, tweaking Dean's nipples, curving nail-sharp through Dean's hair and over Dean's scalp. Jesus. Bet we could find some kind of spell, Dean says, thoughtful now, all of the rage transformed into the crystal clear and diamond point of lust he gets every time he stops thinking about killing and starts thinking -- goes back to thinking -- of Sam.
Slut, Sam says, tone nothing but affectionate. He runs a hand through his hair and then crouches down, lifts the demon's chin with one hand. What d'you think we should do with this one?
The demon hisses, snaps, "You could fucking ask me, boy king. I'm right fucking here."
Dean looks at Sam, raises an eyebrow. Sam rolls his eyes, waves a hand in permission, and Dean grins wide, pulls the knife out from the back of his jeans. Dean takes a step closer to the demon, bends down and runs his fingers over the back of her neck, the bare skin on display there.
"You," he says, "are really not going to enjoy this." Without waiting for a reply, without giving her time for a reply, he kicks her legs apart, makes her fall onto the floor, and then stabs the knife into the back of her right calf.
The demon screams, a long, shrill sound. She tries to move but can't, Sam's power holding her in place as lightning sparks under the host's skin around the blade. Dean finally takes the blade out, relishes the sound of her sobs, and then draws the knife's tip down the back of her arm. She shudders, says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't -- I didn't know, I didn't come here to -- I have something to tell you, please."
Dean looks at Sam, makes a disappointed face when Sam tilts his head just the smallest bit. He steps back, crosses his arms, taps the knife against his lips.
"Talk, then," Sam says. He reaches out, cups the demon's cheek, says, gently this time, soft and persuasive and nearly loving, "Tell me why you came to us." Dean grimaces, hearing Sam use that tone of voice on the demon, but he knows it's a front, knows that Sam doesn't really mean it, knows that Sam will never mean it with anyone other than Dean. He knows that Sam doesn't hardly even see anyone other than him -- and Dean likes it that way.
The demon sobs, shakes, and then talks.
When she's done, Sam stands up, looks down at her thoughtfully. It's been a while since you've had a chance to play with a demon, he says. I'm going to need --
Dean cuts his brother off, groans, Research, because he knows what that sparkle in Sam's eyes means. You're going to need to do research. Well, thanks for not forcing me to crack open the books this time. I mean, Sam -- really, thank you. You remember how many paper-cuts I got last time?
Yeah, Sam says, grinning. Also remember the noises you made when I sucked them dry.
That was good sex, Dean says, returning Sam's smile. You came like a freight train.
Sam shakes his head, walks right on top of and over the demon to get to Dean, completely uncaring of the body underneath his feet. He wraps his arms around Dean, tucks his head into the space where Dean's neck and shoulder meet, mouths at the skin there. Once you've torn her apart and I've had the chance to look some things up, I'll clean all the mess off your skin with my tongue. Sound good?
Dean hums, lets one hand slide down the back of Sam's jeans, play with the cleft of Sam's ass. Like a fucking plan, he says.
Get real messy, Sam tells him. Maybe naked. Wouldn't want you to ruin any more clothes.
You sayin' I should rub my dick in her blood and guts? Dean asks.
Sam laughs, pulls away, kisses Dean slow and wet and lazy. Ain't sayin' nothin', he says. Except to have fun.
Dean watches as his brother leaves, hips swaying from side to side, jeans low on his hips. The demon, pinned to the floor, screams when Dean slowly starts to flay her apart.