The blade is as cold as it looks, but Dean doesn't jump. He doesn't flinch, he doesn't even breathe. This had never gotten any easier below. Alistair might have been an expert at dealing out pain, but he was a master with a blade, carving Dean in new ways every time, impossible to anticipate or adapt to, every agony singular and unique.

Dean's eyes widen, heart beating so hard against his ribs he wonders if it will just stop, and still he doesn't breathe. Dimly, he recalls that he has something he never had before, a magic word to make it stop, remembers where he is and who he's with, but it doesn't seem to matter.

All that matters is that sharp edge, pressed to his skin where it's the most tender. Dean exhales the air building in his lungs in a slow, thin hiss, eyes on the ceiling as they grow hot and begin to spill.