Summary: He slices into the skin, first the smooth outside, then the thicker, tougher, inner layer. My humorous take on torture!fic. In line with my usual brand of humor.
He tests the blade on his thumb. The edge scrapes across the rough calluses on his skin. It's sharp. His instruments are always kept sharp, well-whetted.
Satisfied, he turns his attention to the thing on the table. A predatory smirk creeps onto face.
Reaching over, gripping it, holding it down so it won't move, can't move, he slices into the skin, first the smooth outside, then the thicker, tougher, inner layer.
A trickle of bright liquid runs down the sharp blade, dropping off the pointed tip of it. It drips onto the dirty floor, unheeded. One more stain won't make much of a difference at this point.
Putting the knife aside, he digs into the thin cut he has made in the skin with both his thumbs, gouging aside enough of the thick white flesh to enable him to grasp a slippery hold of one edge. He uses the leverage gained from the loosened skin to pry the rest of it back, back, and off, until he's left with a perfectly peeled mound of juicy flesh, pearly white sinews hanging off the sides of it.
The empty shell of skin, he discards. He has no use for it.
His fingers find a crevasse in the quivering mass that's left and he thrusts his nails into it, digs in. The thin membrane bursts, splashing his face in a bright spray of sticky liquid. Some drops land on his lips; he flicks his tongue out to catch them, relishing the sweet tang. It makes him smile. The taste of it heightens his anticipation of what comes next.
The thing in his hands, now barely recognizable for what it is, is at his mercy now. It splits open where he pulls at it, revealing the sticky, wet flesh inside. He prizes a piece off, carefully, almost lovingly. His salivary glands are working overtime waiting, waiting…
Examining the dripping, gory sliver with a critical eye, he smirks, and pops the tender morsel in his mouth. He savors the tasty bite of the fruit of his labor, the bitter flavor hidden behind the sweet acidity.
His teeth encounter something hard, something that grates and crunches against his molars. He frowns in disapproval and spits out a minuscule speck of ivory; it lands with a soft thunk on top of the previously discarded skin.
Bull's-eye. Twenty points.
He swallows what's left after he chews the bite in his mouth until the taste's been sucked out of it. He's already licking his lips in eager anticipation of the next slice, the next nibble at the juicy flesh, the—
The door to the motel room opens. It's his brother.
He scrambles to hide his handiwork, his dark deed.
Something must have shown on his face because his brother looks suspicious. "Dude, you okay?"
Keep it innocent. "Yeah. Fine." Don't look in the metal trashcan by the bed. Don't look. Don't…Too late.
"Dude. Is that an orange peel? Did you eat an orange?"
"You know that oranges are fruits, right? They're not processed."
"I know that."
"Then why did you eat it? You only eat fruits if they've been baked into pies. Never fresh."
He's defensive: "It's good. Just because I'm eating an orange doesn't mean I'm going vegetarian, for God's sake. Jesus."
"Okay." His brother still looks freaked out. "Fruitarian."
"If you only eat fruits, you're a fruitarian."
He snorts and pulls the peeled orange he'd hidden out from under the take-out box. His fingers become sticky again as he rips another piece off of the golden fruit and places it in his mouth.
"Mmmmm…" He rolls his eyes in ecstasy.
"Please don't make that sound, Dean. It's disturbing."