He doesn't pause when he feels Dean's body loosening under the blows, when the cries start in earnest, but only intensifies the rain of strokes, shifting from Dean's arms to the meat at the sides of his hips, around to the back of his thighs and his ass, even to places he would normally hesitate to go - sides and lower back, though with these he's slightly more gentle. Mostly because so much less is required.

And again it would be easy to get lost in how methodical it is, how one blow follows the other in easy succession, but those cries are wonderful. They're signposts, indicators that every step he's taking - every step they're taking together - is in the right direction.

He soaks them in, lets them power his arm, painting Dean's skin a whole new kind of red, darker red, deep and furious purple.