He feels strangely alone when the scrape of knuckles fades, the clink of the chains that hold him Dean's only company until his tired eyes find Mike at the bed. He remembers thinking the baton looked cruel, but wrapped in Mike's hand, it looks like something else. Dean's afraid of it, realizes with a dizzy rush that he's allowed to be, that like this he has permission, even from himself.

He tugs at his bonds, puts cramping feet to the floor, but he can't get free, and Dean can't stop the panicked sound he makes when Mike turns back to him. It occurs to him to beg, but he doesn't know what he'd ask for. "Please," he manages, terrified, euphoric. "Please."