He can't breathe. He knows he must be, can feel the air push in and out of his lungs, but he can't hear it, ears stopped up with white noise and the long, slow drag of knife. Every fresh cut bites cold and sharp, leaves fire in its wake, and when Mike releases his hair, for a short moment Dean can't remember where he is, smells ash and copper and the salt of the tears streaming down his face.

He sags against the hands framing him, and when the knife parts the soft flesh of his belly, he feels a sob rip free of his chest. There's a word to make this stop. It doesn't fit with the rest of what's happening, where he is, there's not supposed to be a way out. There's a word, and Dean can't remember what it is.

He wouldn't use it if he did.