It was the thought that counted most. The moment Eliot wanted it, touched the chains, they fell away instantly, releasing Sam's wrists, and Sam consequently pulled back, flinching visibly as his muscles stretched and tightened the open wounds, trying to sit back but only managing to catch a stinging wound on his heel as he rocked back into it. He took a sharp breath, then released it, managing the pain. God, he'd kept fighting shot and stabbed before, with a broken arm and a ringing concussion, with blood pouring out his ear. He could do a scratched ass.

"There's nothing to worry about. I'm fine." His voice shook a little. It was the most he was going to betray, the most vulnerable he'd admit to being right then and there. He looked right at Eliot. "I get fucked all the time. Trust me, you did me a favor. That thing--" He glanced at the wicked looking dildo. "He'd have used it. You don't need lube after."

The voice of experience. He shifted, flinching again, reaching across to touch Eliot's knee, still clammy from the warm water. "You're the one who had to...to be something else. You gave up something. I didn't. But if you're feeling that guilty about it, you can help me back to the bath. Hell or not, it's going to take a couple of days for these to heal, and they hurt like a bitch."