He freezes in the act of laying the knife down, ice spiraling its way down his spinal cord. But he finishes, straightens and turns, staring at Dean in what light there is.

Christ, where does he even start. And what the fuck does it mean that this feels harder than the cutting would have been.

"You promised me. You said you'd tell me as soon as this stopped helping." Not accusatory, not angry. Quiet. He's found the center again. He steps close, reaches up to touch the thin cut he's made. "And it isn't helping you, Dean. Not anymore. You gotta know that."