Dean was curled on your lap and crying. Before he'd been in Hell he would've never imagined clinging to you the way he was now. He had wanted to so badly, yeah, but he'd never acted upon it. That was the good thing about dying and coming back he supposed. Got to realize how important you were to him. He'd finally opened up to you and told you he'd been in Hell for forty years, what he'd had done to him, what he'd done to others. Dammit, it broke his heart. He felt like such a loser sobbing into your (his old) shirt, reduced to a snivelling mess in your small arms. You didn't deserve any of this. He didn't deserve you for a matter of fact; you always just stuck by him anyways, and that only made him cry harder. He'd never let you go, not for anything, not ever again.

"Do y..you hate me? For what I…"

Dean hiccups, letting out another tiny sob.

"For what I did to those s..souls?"

He finally lifts his head a bit, his freckled cheeks blotchy and tear-stained, his green eyes red with wet eyelashes.

"Cause I hate m..myself."