Dean knows, on the grand scale of things; angels and devils, Heaven and Hell, black and white way of lookin’ aside (the truth, for the record. Ain’t a matter of perspective)— this is wrong.

With what you’ve just said to him, no wonder Sammy says you’re so susceptible to possession—with all that—suppression you’ve got going on in that pretty little head of yours.

Pretty head, with a wild imagination. Jeez. If this is what all priests hear all day long in these confessional booths, maybe Dean should switch professions. If only he knew girls’ would go for the whole black-robe, white-collar, ‘Oh, Father!’ kind of deal. He thought that was only in the vids. Jokes on him, he guesses.

“Listen, young one,” He winces at himself. It sounds like he’s doing his best Bruce Wayne impression (which is killer, by the way), though the words are fresh off the set of Empire Strikes Back.

“I ain’t think— the Lord wouldn’t want you to suppress all that. It’s only making it worse.”

That’s true. This inner emotional turmoil of yours—it makes you look real sweet to all the nasty stuff out there. Makes you a sitting duck, in actuality. So this is entirely necessary. Totally

“You gotta banish those negative thoughts, sweetie. Then you won’t have ‘em anymore, and you’ll be good. All’s forgiven.”

Sammy should’ve done this job. He’s a more of a BibIe-thumper than Dean is. Except, it doesn’t exactly work how you think it does, either. So if this is to save you, it can’t be that bad, right? ‘Sides. If it was really wrong, Cas would come out and slap him upside the head—so really, that’s as good as a confirmation as any.

“So, tell me.” Dean’s voice is a low rumble,“Let it all out, alright?”

Better Dean, than a deviI.