Sam held his breath, watching Eliot struggle with the pain. He was actually doing well--but he was showing his pain anyway, demonstrating it without any shadow of a doubt at all. That would be enough for Lucifer, even if Sam didn't make him scream.

Lucifer purred. "It doesn't work that way. You were given a chance last time, and because you cooperated, I gave you this opportunity. You failed, Eliot, and now you're going to be punished for it.

"Make a hole, puppy, the way I showed you before."

It had been...so many years since Sam had last been on the rack--decades and decades, actually, but he still knew instantly what Lucifer was implying. He grimaced, shooting a glance over his shoulder, then an apologetic look toward Eliot. He couldn't apologize enough for what he was about to do.

Sam moved the blade out, bringing it up to Eliot's breastbone. He pressed the blade in, just the tip, until it hit bone, then tipped the knife, sliding it upward, separating skin from the bone underneath. The knife was sticky now, but Sam didn't stop until the blood oozed around the handle and spilled onto his hand, the visible shape of it underneath his skin. He shifted the blade, first one way and them the other, gently opening the hole bigger, careful not to cut through the skin, before he pulled it back out, tossing it messily down on the bench. Anything to keep Lucifer focused on what he was doing.

He pressed two fingers into the hole, where the knife had been before, desperately avoiding looking Eliot in the eye.

"There you go," Lucifer crowed. "Do you like that, Eliot?"