He’s tired. God he is so tired. Somehow even though his father had passed he still feels haunted by him.

He is sat, pathetically, he thinks—on the edge of his bed, hand pinching his nose bridge as a few unstoppable tears roll down his face. Its been building. Bubbling up until he boils over.

His childhood was nothing short of bootcamp. John Winchester doomed him to this life, Dean craved that validation. He took it in stride—even if deep down, maybe he didn’t want to.

Sure, he’s rough and tough he is good at what he does and he gets satisfaction out of ganking those monsters like nobody’s business, but he wonders…

Would it be different?

Had he been allowed a childhood?

He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. He had followed his father’s every whim and command. He was more of a father to Sam than John ever was and damnit—he wished selfishly that he could have had a father for once. Throw a baseball around, something.

As he sits there in the dead silence he buries his face in his hands, ”Damnit…” He sighs

Even in such overwhelming angst he still finds it within him to admonish himself for breaking. ’Men don’t cry’ rings in his mind—another contribution of John Winchester.