Eliot almost felt bad for the demon, almost. If Sam was once all that he said he was, then he had fallen so low that he had lost himself like he said he had. That, partially, scared Eliot, more than all the tortures and threats he had faced up to this point. To think that one day he would degenerate to such a degree, to no longer care about what he did, he would cease to exist.

Since the question was rhetorical, Eliot doubted the question required an answer. But his body language, the slight stiffening of his already set shoulders, the crease that appeared between his brows, were replies enough. Those words still meant something to him. The answer was? He had, before men who were evil enough to have been demons, restrained and helpless as they tried to break his spirit in the quickest way possible. It wasn't Hell that invented this as the direct way for breaking someone, but they merely elaborated on what humans had come up long ago, fine tuned through time and resources to make it a new category of torture.

Eliot didn't break when it happened before, there was nothing he could do didn't mean he had to be ashamed of the humiliation forced upon him. He didn't shame himself with how he took it, and he was determined that he wouldn't this time either, not by crying, begging, or giving in.

Meeting Sam's flat, cool gaze, he leered and asked simply, "When do we start?"