He almost smiles at the laugh. Again, he starts slow. Again, he doesn't stay that way.

This time it's the front of Dean's thighs, the strokes again even and measured, but he builds faster, harder, and little by little Dean's thighs are banded with red stripes, and then the red stripes begin to swell, to turn a faint purple.

But this was only ever to give Dean's back a brief respite. So nearly without missing a stroke he's back there again, landing blow after blow on flesh that's already gone raw. Every second, he's sinking deeper into the rhythm. There was always something horribly soothing about the process of taking someone apart.

No, he's not tired. He's not even close to done.