Dean's throat burns from screaming, and he wants to stop not to save his dignity because he doesn't have any of that left anymore, but because he isn't even making any sounds anymore, his voice is so raw. He's bleeding -- God -- everywhere, and Sam's face swims in front of his eyes, but it's not his Sam. It's the face of whoever was here last, whoever had the hot pokers and the knife that Dean hadn't seen, but felt.

There's so much pain that he thinks that's all he is anymore, raw pain, a bundle of nerves to be plucked and played by a master, for the rest of time. Forever stretches out in front of him, and it comes in bundles of pain and anguish, one after another after another, never stopping. Unless. Unless.

He doesn't have tears anymore, or he shouldn't. He hangs his head, sobbing even as it pulls at the hooks in his shoulders, the ones that keep him flat against his rack. His skin tears, but that's not what's breaking right now.

"Okay," he tries to say, but no sound comes out, so he tries again. He shouts with everything he has.

"Okay! I'll do it. I'll... I'll do it. Just... please. Please let me go."