The second she opens her eyes in Hell, Bela grits her teeth against the burning-sharp pain of the razor-like bindings holding her against a rusted, metal rack and says, “That won’t be necessary.”
The demon approaching her, a twisting of dark red smoke roiling within a humanoid shape, pauses. Black eyes stare at her, wide. Surprised.
“Sorry?” it says, its voice like bone ground against a cheese grater.
Despite the horror of the sound itself, Bela almost laughs. It sticks, hysterical and sharp-edged, in her throat. She forces herself to swallow.
“I said, that won’t be necessary,” Bela repeats, pasting on her best smile, the one that made even Dean Winchester pause. She has no idea if it will work on a demon, but what exactly does she have to lose by trying? “Lilith told me how this works. I’m happy to go to work right away.”
She wants to hold out her hand, make a little grabby gesture to indicate that she’ll take that razor off the demon’s… hand? Technically she can move her fingers, but like hell she’s moving any more than necessary until the bindings are gone.
“Anything you want, by the way,” she continues, because the demon is still staring at her and if the pain is inevitable, she can at least put it off for as long as possible. “I’d be an excellent crossroads demon, but I’ll happily flay open anyone you want with that little razor, too. Or, do demons need anything? Ancient spells? Artifacts? I’m… I was… excellent at procuring the rarest of items while I was alive.”
The demon continues to stare at her. It has no mouth, but a jagged slash abruptly slits open across it’s face, roughly where a mouth would be. Bela hopes it’s smiling.
“Figures,” the demon sighs. “My first vacation in years, and they give me one who’s raring to go.” The demon casually flips the razor end over end, catches it by the blade. Bits of smoke trail away like the suggestion of blood. “What if I asked you to retrieve the horn of a true unicorn that’s been soaked in virgin’s tears?”
Bela’s used to not asking questions. She can’t shrug without pulling on her bindings, so she smirks instead. “I’d say give me a week.”
The slash stretches wider. A grating, grinding sound follows, what Bela thinks might be laughter.
“I’m going to regret this,” it says as it passes the razor to its other hand and steps forward, and as it does it takes on a human form, short and round-faced and unassuming, so bizarrely out of place. He waves his free hand and the bindings fall away, allowing Bela to slide cautiously to the burning, stone-like ground.
With the coaxing, crooked grin of a salesman, the demon holds out his hand. Bela takes it in both of hers, amping up her smile as she does so, refusing to show how weak the relief has made her feel.
“The name’s Crowley,” he says. “I think you and I, darling, are going to get along famously.”
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