Dean twists in shock, but the blows come hard and fast, crack crueler than the crop, and it's a long, heady moment before Dean realizes those short, surprised shouts are coming from him. Every stroke punches another from his lungs, and Dean grits his teeth, red lips stretching in an endless snarl, but it doesn't hurt like before. For every blow that lands, Dean takes it and feels himself pushed a little further, down where it's easy and quiet. Down where it's simple.

His toes flex, but Dean can't keep his feet, and after a moment more, Dean stops trying. He hangs there, feels breathless and skinless and wide, wide open.