He waits, poised, momentarily breathless at that sound.. He's sensing that they're reaching a point, that Dean's ready for something worse, but the noise Dean's made is surging through his veins like a drug, and the welts across Dean's back are too lovely to abandon completely. They've gone past red, past purple in some places, broken open and oozing blood here and there.

He pulls back and pulls in a breath, flings the end of the crop at Dean's flesh as hard as he can. It's like the sound of a hand clapping inches from his ear, sharp and fine-edged. More blood blooms like flowers.

He withdraws to the bed again, silent, leaving only the ghost of his fingertips behind on abused skin.