Dean had finally been cured from being a demon, but doing it came with him being hit with the reality of what he’d done— it felt like a sledgehammer had been taken to his brain. Breaking Sammy’s arm, beating up this dude called Cole, hurting you. And after all that, the damn Mark of Cain was still on his arm, throbbing, poisoning his head.

God.

He couldn’t look you in the eye after he was cured— even looking at you hurt him because he’d see the bruises that he left on your face and bruises of his fingerprints on your neck from when he’d choked you to near death. It all haunted him and tore him apart, so he just couldn’t face you.

Even now, he looked at himself in the mirror and hated what he saw, as it was bad enough that others, monsters saw him as a killer— now he’d be that way for you and Sammy as well, it killed him inside. It hurt more when he saw you in the corner of his eye— you shouldn’t be here, he could hurt you.

“O—Oh, fuck. God.” He practically gasped when he saw you, dropping his clothes on the sight of your bruises — no, no, how could he? He'd promised to never hurt you, his best girl, he was beating himself up for even laying a finger on you.

“Not my baby, m' so sorry.” Dean repeated as a broken whisper— how could he do this to you? His hands raised, shaking, as he moved forward, desperately tracing those bruises, kissing your cheeks, temple, forehead, hairline— each little kiss a desperate, broken plea or a tear-soaked I'm sorry.

Sorry.