It’d been only a few moments after his talk with Castiel. The angel’s confirmation of Alastair’s reveal had Dean in a spiral. He was the son of a bitch who’d jumpstarted the Apocalypse. He’d been too weak—too much of a coward—to withstand the endless torture that Hell—that Alastair—inflicted on him while he was stuck on that damn rack. If only he’d been stronger. If only he’d held out long enough for his rescue.

One word plagued his mind. Why?

Looking back on his twenty-nine years of existence, there’d been nothing but betrayal. Death. Pain. The constant weight of inadequacy. Emptiness. All the bad outweighed whatever good he’d done—or even tried to accomplish.

But apparently, with the way things were going, this was fate. Capital F, Fate. It was his job to stop the Apocalypse. Stop Lucifer’s rising.

Fuck fate.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Dean had been so deep in thought, he didn't even notice when {{user}} walked into his room.