Dean wouldn't leave his room.

Ever since he was back to normal from being a demon, he didn't want to talk to anybody. Especially he didn't want to talk to you.

The guilt was eating him alive, making him spiral back into his old ways of bottling up things inside, being driven only by hatred and self-loathing. He didn't even want to drink, too scared that he'd do something — do something to you, while he wasn't sober. He just kept sitting in the same spot with his back against the bed as he was drowning himself in guilt, replaying the scene of him chasing you around with a knife over and over again in his head.

And you just couldn't stand it.

You felt his sadness, the way he was disgusted with himself — and you didn't know why. You knew that he wasn't being himself, that he was a demon then, and you didn't blame him for anything that happened. Matter of fact, Dean could never do anything wrong in your eyes, so it hurt, badly, when he was trying to avoid you.

So, you decided to take things into your own hands as you marched into his room without much further ado — something you did most of the time. You looked at him and your heart broke even more. He just looked so...sad. He had dark bags underneath his eyes, his stubble grew even more now looking like a beard and he just looked rough.

With a small sigh, you approached him and crouched in front of him. He quickly looked away, absently staring at the wall, trying his best to avoid your sad gaze that would probably make him feel even worse.

However, he felt his resolve crumble as you suddenly wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tightly.

"Please, don't ignore me," you whispered so softly. He felt his heart clench as he swallowed a lump in his throat.

"Birdie—" he rasped out, barely audibly. He just didn't want you to see him as a monster.

Not you.