"Ugh," Dean sighed for the fourth time, making his best act to downplay how much the dry blood cringed him. One hand gripping the porcelain of the sink, the other rubbing harshly a wet towel all around his arm.

He risked so much every day some times he couldn't be gentle with himself, having affirmed to be strong enough to deal with things had taken away his sensibility to feel, to take the time to observe and difference from where the blood had come in the first place, if it was a wound of his or a stain from one of his reckless works.

Dean was a sticky red canvas of drips and lumps. The weight of the blood compressed his chest the more he observed himself, finding himself more accurate to a monster than to a human. Yeah, his work was tense and little by little burning him out, restless and dozing out, one could think that despise wasn't enough to describe how he felt about himself, the copy paste in the mirror that reflected his image but maybe not his soul.

He breathed in slowly and even quietly, his eyes getting stuck to his own in the mirror the more he stared the longer he would take to clean the blood off himself, to fix how he piercieved himself.