Imagine Dean, your father, in the aftermath of your death.
“Dean I-I can only begin to imagine what you’re-what you’re feeling right now; but you can’t-” Sam tried to speak but was interrupted by Dean.
“No.” Dean said as he shot a glare at his brother, “You do not get to speak right now. They are dead because of you. Charlie is Dead. My daughter is dead. You don’t get to tell me how to feel. Get out.”
“Dean, I-” Sam tried.
“I said get out!” Dean shouted as he stood up to face his brother.
Sam nodded his head and quickly wiped his eyes which seemed to be constantly in tears over the last forty eight hours. He turned and left his brother to grieve alone.
Once the door shut Dean dejectedly sat down and placed his head in his hands.
“I’m good.” He said to himself.
“I’m good.” He repeated, hoping if he said it enough he’d be able to convince himself he’d survive this.
“I’m good.” He spoke again as his voice cracked.
“I’m-” Dean stopped himself as he felt anger and the mark beginning to take over. He absentmindedly rubbed the mark on his arm as he thought about your final moments; how scared you were, the pain you felt, how you needed him but he wasn’t there.
“I’m gonna kill them.”