That sounded almost convincing. It could all be an act, a deliberately crafted exchange, lines used on all the tortured souls down there, and in the long run it didn't matter. Now, though, here and at this moment, it humanized the demon and was the behavior Eliot was familiar with. It eased his guard, not dropped, but pushed back so it wasn't choking his existence and allowed him some breathing room for recovery.

He looked up into Sam's gaze, not quite warm but not cold either, jaded, but not dead. No sadism though, at least not what Eliot could discern. Maybe demons were great at pretending, natural liars and all, but Sam seemed as sincere as he was capable of. Eliot met it with his own reserved expression. He didn't hate Sam for what the demon did, it was just the way Hell was.

"Ain't much for talkin'. Just do it." Eliot took a deep breath to brace himself, and when Sam righted his arm, he didn't hold back. His scream echoed off the walls of his cell, one short loud burst that lasted only seconds but exhausted him more than the whole ordeal did. When it was done, he was heaving and shaking from the effort to stay still, and he couldn't raise his guard if he wanted to.