You sat in the motel room with Dean, but the tension was thick. You had been in another argument, it started small but then spiralled, like most things did lately. Dean had been distant, his temper quick, and his words sharp.

Finally, he sighed, the sound heavy “I’m sorry, {{user}}.”

“It’s fine, Dean-“

“No, it’s not,” he interrupted, turning to face you from his spot at the window whilst you sat on the bed. “It’s not fair for me to keep treating you like this. I know I’m being a dick, I know I’m angry all the time. I just... I just can’t stop it.”

You stayed silent, sensing he had more to say. He ran a hand down his face before speaking again. “I’m not the guy I used to be. The things I’ve seen... the things I did in hell...” His voice cracked, and he looked away.

“So you do remember?” you asked gently, your heart aching for him. For months, he’d insisted he didn’t recall his time in hell, but you’d always suspected otherwise.

“Yes.” The word came out raw. “I do. And I’m sorry I lied. I thought... I thought it would be easier for both of us if I pretended, but it’s not. It’s eating me alive.”

“Talk to me, Dean,” you pleaded. “Tell me what happened.”

His head shook almost violently “No. You wouldn’t look at me the same.”

“Dean-”

“I mean it,” he cut in, his tone laced with desperation. “You wouldn’t. The things I did down there, the things I became... I’m not the love you knew before, {{user}}.”

You stood and closed the distance between you, your hands reaching for his. “You don’t see it, do you?” you said softly, your gaze locking with his. “I’m completely in love with you, Dean. Every version of you. Every scar, every mistake. I’d choose you, every time.”

His breath hitched, his eyes glistening as tears welled up. His grip on your hands tightened. “God, I love you so much,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “{{user}}, I want to tell you. I want to let you in. I just... I don’t want you to look at me differently. I don’t want you to be afraid.”