Dean pants in his bonds, head fallen back and muscles pulled too desperate and tight to let him lift it for long moments, mouth dry and sore. Not from the slaps, he must have bitten his lips, his tongue, the sides of his mouth to stop from screaming, and his feet are rigid against the floor. Dean unfurls cramping toes one by one, stretching them fitfully.

In the silence, Dean eases his discomfort by drawing trembling limbs back under control, but it's harder all the time. He feels wired, too jumpy, and yet exhausted, movements jerky and agony on his back. When he thinks he can keep his head upright, he rolls it up, propped against his lifted arm, and finds Mike at the bed.

Dean's lips part, but he doesn't ask when or for more, sensing that Mike will come to him in his own time. There's something dripping down his shoulderblades, cool when it catches the air, and Dean jerks again to realize it's blood.