So people seem genuinely interested in this so I thought I'd stick it in it's own story file. I dunno when I'll update it but here you go.
Hell AU. Really just general fan fiction, not really Destiel unless you tilt your head slightly to the left, squint just the right amount, and think dirty thoughts. Oh, and I don't own Supernatural.
One Wing in the Fire (1)
"Such beautiful hair. Such lovely, lovely hair. Like sunlight in a physical form. Do all angels have hair like this or is just you?"
A fist closed around the strands of blonde hair and yanked, trying to entice a cry of pain from the owner. But the angel strapped to the rack remained silent, jaw clenched, impossibly blue eyes glaring at the stained cement ceiling.
Castiel wasn't entirely sure what had happened. One moment he had been flying with his brothers, his sword flashing with theirs, attacking the demon scum that had been trying to invade Heaven's borders. The next thing he knew there had been an incredible and blinding pain in his left wing and he'd tumbled from the sky…into the waiting arms the demon hoard. There had been blood and fighting and screaming and then darkness and fire. When things had finally settled down, he had found himself in a little cement room, bound to a cold metal table, his glowing white wings stretched out and held in that position by vicious meat hooks, his robes and armor gone.
At first there had been no one. Castiel had called for his brothers, screaming their names, praying to them, to his Father. When his cries had failed, he had turned to trying to free himself. But his left wing was broken in several places and the restraints on his body were carved with angel warding sigils. Even his Grace could not burn through them. So he lay there in frustrated silence and waited for something to happen.
For a long time, nothing had. Hours stretched into days and days melded into years. Castiel lost track of time completely. That was when the first demons had appeared. Smoky and crackling with angry power, they had seeped in through the cracks in the cement, pouring into the room and clawing at his pale flesh with burning claws. Each mark they carved healed instantly with the power of Castiel's Grace but they continued to scratch at him over and over and over again. Low level, formless demons carving their profane names and blasphemous phrases across his body, draining his Grace as they went, laughing when he snarled at them, cursed them, wished them nothing but suffering.
Finally, when they had exhausted his Grace, when the scratches would no longer heal, the demons slunk off, giggling and licking blood from their smoke-like claws. Castiel had made the mistake of relaxing and let out a sigh of relief, slumping against his bonds to wait for his Grace to renew itself so he could heal his body before the demons could return.
That was when the knife was plunged into his stomach.
It was still there. Alastor had stuck it into the angel's stomach when he had entered the room and then moved to inspect his prize. Now he was playing with the angel's hair, pulling on it, twisting it in his thin, boney fingers.
"I should scalp you and hang the prize on my wall." The Demon Lord of Torture and Suffering crooned, leaning in close to Castiel's ear.
"Scum!" The angel spat, unable to contain himself.
Alastor simply threw back his head and laughed, releasing Castiel's hair and sauntering over to a metal table full of tools.
"You know, I've never had an angel to play with before." The Demon Lord hummed, plucking up a curved blade, inspecting it, and setting it back down again, "Your kind is always so careful to make sure their brothers are kept safe. It's hard to capture one of you alive." He held a paper-thin needle up to the light before rejecting it with a shake of his head, "I'm very interested in seeing what fun you can provide me with."
Castiel wanted to tell the demon that he would get no such enjoyment from him but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a strangled cry. Alastor had chosen that moment to yank the knife from his stomach and toss it back to the table with a smirk. Alastor had a humanoid appearance, just as Castiel did, but the Demon Lord's form was a horrid perversion of the human body. He was too thin, too angular, his eyes a greedy and half-mad blood red. He was bald, iron gray horns curling in a tiny crown around his skull, his pale fingers clawless, his mouth full of jagged and broken teeth, his tail a grayish, scaled thing that was thin enough to wrap around the handle of a knife and hold it just as easily as his hands.
"Not quite the sound I was looking for." Alastor said mildly, picking up a leather belt from a metal box on the table, "Maybe this will help." He held the strip of black leather up and Castiel saw that it was dotted with small, sharp nails of iron.
"No." The word slipped out before Castiel could stop himself and he quickly clamped his mouth shut. But Alastor was grinning.
"You might want to relax. It will hurt less if you do." The demon grinned, showing those horrid teeth, and leaned down. Alastor's hands were cold as he forced the belt around Castiel's middle, over his stomach, buckled tightly around the angel to click shut at his back. The iron nails tore painfully into his muscle and he let out a whimper of pain. Every time he took a breath, the nails bit into him and made him want to cry.
"Still not quite right…" Alastor murmured, looking thoughtful, "Maybe…" And he turned away.
Castiel clenched his fists, trying his hardest not to cry out, not to give the Demon Lord pleasure. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain, trying to bring up images of Paradise, of his brothers. But each time they were washed away in a flare of pain from the belt and the iron nails in his stomach. He could hear Alastor moving but it was hard to think, to anticipate, to form coherent thoughts when pain continued to shoot through him at regular intervals.
Something sliced into the feathers of his damaged wing and he couldn't help it. He screamed.
Not his wings, not his perfect wings, not his pride and joy. He didn't even want to look.
Despite his claims that he had never captured an angel before, Alastor was horribly precise about where he cut into Castiel's wings. One feather at a time, sliced as slowly as possible, drifted to the floor, and all Castiel could do was scream and beg and cry.
And all Alastor did in return was laugh.
Time ceased to exist.
Castiel's whole world became the cement walls, the mind-breaking agony, and Alastor's slimy presence. Nothing else existed. The Demon Lord had a talent for causing maximum pain with minimal damage, living up to his name as King of Torment and Suffering.
Castiel hated him. Hated Alastor, hated demon kind, hated Hell with a fury that he had never had before.
But he was also terrified. And the terror was more powerful than the anger and pushed aside the fire like a wave of ice cold water. Castiel flinched at the sound of Alastor's voice, whimpered at his touch, screamed at the demon's will. Alastor played him like a harp, pulling and twisting his strings until Castiel screamed with the perfect pitch that made the Demon Lord laugh happily.
Sometimes he left and in those moments, Castiel was left to drift in a sea of agony. His injuries pulsed with the beat of his dwindled Grace, each beat of pain a wave that rolled across his mindless consciousness. The angel could hardly think anymore, to hurt and broken was he.
And then, something changed.
When Alastor reappeared one day (second, morning, month, evening?), Castiel turned away, whimpering in fear, prepared for more suffering. But there was someone else with him. A demon, taller and broader than Alastor with impressive, curling black horns that shone like obsidian stood at the Demon Lord's shoulder, peering at Castiel. This new demon was humanoid as well, but far less so than Alastor. His skin was a deep, deep crimson, his fingers tipped in shiny black claws, his eyes were an angry emerald green, and his thick tail was tipped in a steely black arrowhead. He was dressed in a black leather duster with too many straps criss-crossing his bare chest, his black jeans studded down the sides in silver spikes, and a crown of spikes and volcanic glass sat upon his ruffled black hair. Clutched in one hand, he carried a thin scepter of black iron and topped with small, red ruby that glowed dimly with an angry red light. The oddest part was the demon's face; it was wrapped in an odd assortment of straps and belts, leaving only his eyes and mouth free, as though he was ashamed of his own features.
"He's very pretty, even after you've carved him up." Where Alastor's voice was oily snake venom, this demon's voice was gruff and edged in broken glass and cracked pavement.
"I thought you would like him, Amon." Alastor was grinning, hands clasped behind his back as he watched the other demon circle the angel, "You and Astaroth do like your pretty things."
So, the new demon was in fact Amon, the Demon Lord of Wrath and Revenge. Castiel watched him without interest through slitted eyes as the demon's green eyes traveled across the angel's torn and ruined flesh. Then they settled on the wings. A clawed hand came up and brushed the ruined feathers and Castiel twitched away automatically, moaning when the meat hooks bit into his wing.
"I like him." Amon said in his gravelly voice, "Can I have him?"
Alastor's face immediately fell into a grimace, "No. He is mine. I captured him. You don't even fight in the war with Heaven. If you want an angel so bad, go pick one out yourself."
"I want this one." Amon growled and his voice was thunder in Castiel's chest.
"No." Alastor spat again, "Mine."
Amon growled again and the ruby on the end of his scepter brightened in his anger. But he seemed to control his temper because his lips parted in a smile, showing a mouthful of perfect, sharp teeth that were too white on his dark skin, "I will trade you."
Alastor looked at him suspiciously, "Trade me what?"
Amon appeared to be thinking. Castiel watched him, half-heartedly wondering what in the world the Demon Lord of Wrath and Revenge could possibly want with him. Alastor lived to torment and cause as much pain as he could, it made sense for him to want the angel to remain in his possession. But what would Amon do with him? Be angry at him all the time?
"You can have Meg." Amon finally said and Alastor snorted, a noise of dissatisfaction, "Aaaannnddd Azazel. I never liked that asshole anyway." Alastor crossed his arms and raised his head, wordlessly demanding more, "Fifteen souls from my harem." Alastor's eyebrowless forehead rose, telling Amon to keep going, "And ten of my soldiers."
That seemed to satisfy the Demon Lord of Torment because he uncrossed his arms and thrust a hand out. Amon huffed and clasped the other demon's hand in his own, giving it one shake before letting go and turning to Castiel.
"Good news, angel, you've got a new home."
How in Heaven's name was that good news?