In My Image
"I’ve often wondered," Alastair muses, "why he made you the way he did. I mean, for a species he meant to lord over all, you're awfully fragile."
He slides his blade gently down Dean's chest, skin splitting at the slightest touch. Blood wells up in a thin line and the demon’s tongue follows hungrily.
“Should I stop here, do you think? Or should I keep going?” Alastair lifts his eyes and stares the other man in the face. Dean’s jaw is clenched. Today he’s trying to take refuge in silence and Alastair’s having none of it. “Well, if you have no opinion, I’ll just please myself, shall I?”
There’s nothing gentle after that, as Alastair wields his weapon for maximum disfigurement. Dean’s silence lasts mere moments and the demon laughs. “You had your chance to have your say, my boy. It’s far too late to object now.”
When Dean’s been reduced to a quivering lump of raw meat, Alastair whispers into what used to be his ear. "You know you’re going to shatter. You’re far too weak to do anything else. And when that happens, I’m going to gather up all the lovely pieces and remake you in my image.”