Castiel has a wall of knives, and he sharpens every one. A knife for peeling the skin back from a finger is narrow, and pointed, short.
A knife for disarticulating an arm is wider, heavier, and has no point. A knife for scoring tooth and bone is long and thin.
Steel, silver, ivory, gold, ceramic, they are placed impeccably, in organized rows, shortest to longest, lightest to heaviest. All sharp and glittering, like diamond.
He is sharpening a hooked knife now, good for the--removal-- of eyes from the orbital socket. Careful strokes of the whetstone, a cloth to remove the filings.
It is hot, always too hot, in the Pit, so he works with no shirt, with sweat dampening his hair and dripping down his face.
His hooked knife dulls from its scrape on bone when it twists in the eye socket. It takes a lot of twists to take the hone off of steel, and this knife was dull as clay, when he began.
He strokes, and then tests its edge on the nail of his left thumb. A millimeter slices off, easy.
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