Except Dean doesn't exactly want to piece his brain back together. He's not sure there's anything but guilt to be found there, and he's not entirely sure he can take it in Lucier's presence.

Head still dropped down, hovering just barely above the desk, Dean tries to wrench it up once more, chains clinking as he attempts to siphon blood back to his brain. All it does is make him feel like he's spinning, still breathing hard, trying to move his feet back together as close as they can go. All that's left is the dwindling desire of the moment, the fact that he can't help but face how badly he wanted this. But that doesn't mean he has to like feeling vulnerable now that it's quiet.