Dean screams until he can't draw breath for it, and then he groans, and when he can't do that, he whimpers, hanging limp but for the blows that come hard enough to toss him in his chains. The pain feels etched to his bones, feels like something he'll carry with him even when the marks are gone, but it's beginning to grow distant. There's a buzzing between Dean's ears, the little room dark and growing dimmer. His stomach churns - there's no adrenaline left to carry him, and Dean feels sick with the lack, muddled and weak.

Another blow, another crushing wave of pain, and Dean lets it bowl him over and under, bundle him away to the safe, buzzing place where everything is muted.