That short whisper hurts more than the leather, at least through the first set of strokes. And then Mike's arm flies faster, harder, and Dean can't decide what hurts worse, the ache that deepens with every hard stroke, or the sting that accompanies the lighter ones.

Toes curling against the floor, Dean grips his chains, face turned hard into his shoulder. There's a sound building in his throat, but it doesn't make it out, a low whine that Dean swallows down and releases with short, panted breaths, one for every dull smack of leather.

They'd been right - Dean in his assumption and Mike in his confidence. Mike is good at this, and Dean takes the first step towards letting go, towards trusting the other man to give him exactly what he's said he will, and do it well.