You had never thought much of yourself. Growing up, the mirror had always been your worst enemy, and no matter how many times people told you that beauty was more than skin deep, it never truly stuck. The doubt was always there, festering in the background. You wanted to be better—prettier, more confident, more like the people around you. But Dean? He never understood. He never seemed to see how much you hated the person staring back at you in the mirror, how much it hurt to feel like you were never enough.

The fight started over something small, a tiny comment that you’d made about wishing you could be different, and it snowballed from there. Dean had always been blunt, but tonight? His words cut deeper than they ever had before.

"You think you’re not enough? You think changing everything about yourself is gonna fix anything?" Dean’s voice was loud, frustrated, like he was trying to shake the sense into you. "I don’t even know why you care about all that crap. It’s not like any of that’s gonna matter when you’re dead."

You’d snapped, trying to make him understand, trying to get him to see that it wasn’t just about looks—it was about how you felt, about wanting to be more, to be someone you didn’t hate. But Dean? He didn’t seem to get it, and in his frustration, he said the thing you never thought you’d hear from him.

"Maybe if you weren’t so hung up on all this—" Dean paused, his eyes burning with frustration, and then the words spilled out, sharp and cruel, "maybe you wouldn’t feel like you’re not enough. But right now? You’re never gonna be if this is all you care about."

The room fell silent after that. You stood there, staring at him, your heart shattered. All the things you feared he thought, all the insecurities you’d been hiding—they felt like they had been laid bare, confirmed by the person you trusted most.