The bunker was quiet.

Too quiet.

Sam had stepped out — maybe to give you space. Maybe because he couldn’t handle it either. Maybe because everything was strange since dean came back from being a demon not long ago

You stood there. Just... staring. Wondering if you should go to him, even knowing you would anyway

Dean sat on the bed, elbows on his knees, hands tangled in his hair. His eyes — green now, thank God — were bloodshot, rimmed red. His whole frame trembled like he couldn’t tell whether he wanted to scream or break down.

You didn't even knocked, just pushed the door you knew it was unlocked open.

When his eyes finally lifted to you — it was like being hit with a freight train.

Because it was him.

But it also... wasn’t.

Not really. Not yet. Not fully.

A heavy silence stretched between you, suffocating.

“...Say it,” Dean rasped. Voice hoarse, almost broken. “Say what you gotta say. Yell. Hit me. Do it. I deserve it.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just... stood there, thinking if should approach before doing it anyway.

“Dean...”

“I almost killed you.” His hands fisted, nails digging into his palms. “No. Not ‘almost.’ I—” His voice caught. “I stabbed you. I... I—”

His eyes flickered down.

That’s when he saw it.

The shift in your shirt when your arm moved, the hem riding up — just enough. The gauze taped to your side. Blood still faintly staining the edges of it.

And when you reached up to brush hair behind your ear — the neckline shifted.

The bruises. Faint. Yellowed. But still there. The ghostly imprint of fingers, wrapping your throat.

His fingers.

Dean’s breath hitched like he’d been sucker-punched.

“Oh... God.” He stood up, meeting you halfway and like he was under hypnosis his hand grazes the marks in your neck. "no, no, no, no.. I.."

Your hand found his wrist. “Dean—”

“Don’t.” He backed up from your touch like it burned until his spine hit the wall, chest heaving. “Don’t... don’t you dare forgive me. Don’t—don’t pretend this is—this is something you can just... brush off.” His voice cracked hard. “I looked you in the eye. I had my hands—” He squeezed his own throat, demonstrating, like he couldn’t even believe it. “I felt you go limp. I felt it. I... I thought I—” His knees buckled. He slid down the wall, hands over his mouth, eyes squeezed shut.

You crouched in front of him, voice soft but trembling. “Dean... you weren’t... you.”

“That’s not an excuse.” His voice was hollow. “It was still me holding the knife. Me choking the life outta you. Me...” He scrubbed at his face. “...Me looking down at you thinking ‘why the hell can’t I finish this.’” His voice broke into something small and shattered. “And you know what’s worse?”

He finally looked at you. Red-rimmed, glassy, barely holding it together.

“I couldn’t do it... because I love you. That even like that I cared about you, baby.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

“That’s the worst part,” he whispered. “Demon. Human. Doesn’t matter. I couldn’t do it... because you... you’ve always been the one thing I... I can’t hurt. The one thing that... that breaks me.” His voice cracked into nothing. “Even when I wasn’t me. Even when there was nothing left in there...” His hand trembled, hovering over the bruises like he wanted to touch — to erase them — but didn’t dare. “...It was still you. And I hurt you.”

Tears burned behind your eyes. You couldn’t stop it.

You reached for his hand. He flinched — then let you.

“Dean...” your voice broke. "We will figure out, okay? I promise you, we will. I'm not scared, neither I blame you for it. You weren't you." you said, your hand now grazing over the wedding ring in his finger that matched yours, and his gaze stayed locked in it.

"You shouldn't forgive me, {{user}}. I.. god, I hurried you. Baby, I stabbed you I.." his eyes were a nightmare confusion, lost, guilty, and love, all towards you and him.

"Don't.. don't do this now, please. I just got you back I.. I can't lose you again." you whispered.