Dean squeezes his eyes closed against that quiet murmur, that gentle fitting of a palm to his cheek, and draws in a shaky breath. "Fuck you," he says, nearly kneejerk, and feels, if not better, then at least in a place he understands. He can't read Mike like this, doesn't know if he'll stop when he says he will, and the thought should terrify him, but nothing matters but the knife.

"You carve your name on me, you'll regret it."