Growley was an intelligent dog, but she was still a dog -- and when Crowley said to do something, she would do it. And so while the blanket of silver caused her to stop, she snarled at it, moving forward to test it experimentally with her nose -- and it sent the dog backwards with a yelp of pain, the flesh hissing with a burn as she circled backwards, snarling angrily at the wall.

The demon didn't say anything, but he immediately raised a hand, to calm his dog, his eyes fixated on the wall of silver. This had just gone from annoying to potentially dangerous. Silver int his world had, he thought, been relatively rare, but here was an entire wall of it, and it was aimed at both him and his dog. And while Crowley was certain he could endure an attack of silver and iron, he wasn't about to torture his dog pointlessly.

The dog, however, had other ideas -- and when Crowley moved out of her line of sight, Growley immediately moved forward again, but turned away centimeters from the wall, her fur and tail brushing against the silver, hissing and crackling at the negative reaction, a snarl of pain emanating from her, and the demon stopped in his tracks again.

"Stay," Crowley said quietly, loud enough for the dog to hear -- but then he raised his voice, his tone rough and furious. "I hope you realize that while this game is extraordinarily entertaining to you, I've lost any sense of humor I once had," Crowley snapped at the walls of the alley, "and if one strand of fur on that dog's hide is injured in any way, shape, or form, I am going to make your life an eternal hell."

And the way Crowley said it -- the anger behind that one word -- he meant every last syllable.

He abhorred torture. Unless it was necessary.