Dean lay in a heap by the hell-tinged fire. Arms crossed and bound behind him, legs tied together at the ankles, his body was a mass of cuts and bruises.
The witches danced frenziedly around him, nude bodies oiled and gleaming in the firelight. Mad with power and lust, they threw themselves onto him, rubbed against him, tore at him, kissed him.
Face stony, Dean held on. He could feel Sam in the darkness outside the firelight, knew his brother would make his move soon. Hard.
And, with any luck, before these bitches came in for their final lap dance.