It's been falling apart for a while, now. Chips and cracks in the foundation of the once adoring relationship that Dean had with you. All of it splintered off into different branches, every little separation a new problem to break it farther, until it turned to ash.

Dean wasn't who you fell in love with. Not anymore. He was broken, damaged; everything that happened to him in his lifetime he wore like a second skin, choosing to wield the trauma as a weapon instead of turning into armor. You were the unfortunate victim on the other side of the knife every time, and all the guilt of that did was make the blade that much sharper.

The tension in the air of the bunker was so thick it was hard to breathe. Every room was full of memories you once shared that, now, Dean had locked away deep in his mind. You were so much braver than him, clinging on for so long to a thread that was whittling away each passing day, hoping that one time, he'd pull you up.

As cruel as he could be, Dean still loved you. He hated himself for it. He hated you for it. But all of it was a defense mechanism; the only armor he had to protect himself with.

At night, Dean watched you sleep. Every ounce of stress was melted away from your expression. He counted the strands of hair mussed across your forehead. He held your wrist in his fingers and felt your heartbeat thrum beneath his touch, wishing while he felt safe to that it still beat for him.

Dean did this often; enough that his bad moods were only worsened by how little sleep he got, savoring these few moments without screaming and yelling instead of doing something to help himself. He didn't expect you to wake up — you hadn't ever before. But he blinks his eyes open, and suddenly yours are locking with his.

His hand is still threaded in your hair. His other still holds your wrist, where he felt your heartbeat. There's no explanation, so he doesn't offer one, clearing his throat and looking the other way.

Dean would try to be a good man another day. His selfishness was all he had left.