A/N: Because Ketch was a fascinating character and I'd like to get inside his head more (while I wait for him to be added to the character list). In this case, for that moment with the shifter in 12x20. Warnings for descriptions of torture.
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of the CW.
Ketch has made a pincushion of the shifter before he's done. There's spikes driven through all of its upper torso; sticking out at odd angles, embedded in ribs, straight through nerves… Nothing vital though. He's smarter than that.
There's only one silver spike left by the time Ketch abandons the rack that held them and turns to the instruments on the table beside it instead. He selects a scalpel and leans in close to the shifter, eyes glinting dangerously. His teeth are bared in a grin.
A hand tangles in the shifter's hair, wrenching its head back as the scalpel scrapes down its throat and the point pricks just above its clavicle. The shifter struggles, moans, and Ketch feels the ripple in its muscles. Muscles that look just like his.
"Oh no, don't change," he says softly. "I'm curious."
He pushes the scalpel in and slices.
The shifter howls, skin severing all the way down its chest as Ketch drags the silver blade to the base of its ribs and then discards the instrument in favor of his hand. He pushes skin back, exposing muscles and ribs as he sees just how deep he cut. Hot blood spills over his skin.
He's fascinated. The shifter knows his DNA: has enough to make a perfect carbon copy of him, and there's a morbid curiosity as to what his own insides look like. He reaches for the final spike and then uses the point to probe deeper, testing the sponginess of a rapidly heaving lung.
The shifter coughs, a hacking bark turning to a bitter laugh. "That's right," it taunts, southern drawl a jarring contrast to its otherwise perfect mimicry. Hate filled eyes peer down at him. "I'm you: inside and out."
Ketch smirks. "Oh, but here's an inaccuracy." He moves the point of the spike to rest against the quivering mass of a pounding heart. "I don't have one."
Ketch drives the spike home.