Dean registers Annie's yelp as if from a great distance, and he shuffles back, forcing her with a harshness he'll regret later into the bathroom. His broken arm protests its use in angry spasms, but Dean gets the door slammed behind her with a muffled groan.

Cas has him up against the wall again, one armed with a sword that needs two, and there's nothing else for it. Dean draws his blade. It seems to sing from its sheath, strength and comfort flowing from the sight so palpably Dean almost thinks he can feel it in his broken arm. The ache is duller than before, in his arm, if not his heart.

"Cas," he says, licking red lips, "I'm begging you. Stop."