I know how dead you are inside. How worthless you feel. I know how you look into a mirror and hate what you see. I mean, you’re going to Hell and you won’t lift a finger to stop it. Talk about low self-esteem. Then again, I guess it’s not much of a life worth saving, now is it? I mean, after all, you’ve got nothing outside of Sam. You are nothing. You’re as mindless and obedient as an attack dog. What are the things that you want? What are the things that you dream? I mean, your car? That’s Dad’s. Your favorite leather jacket? Dad’s. Your music? Dad’s. Do you even have an original thought? No, all there is is, “Watch out for Sammy. Look out for your little brother, boy!” You can still hear your Dad’s voice in your head, can’t you? Clear as a bell. All he ever did is train you, boss you around. But Sam… Sam he doted on. Sam, he loved. Dad knew who you really were. A good soldier and nothing else. Daddy’s blunt little instrument. Your own father didn’t care whether you lived or died. Why should you?
You thought you could actually kill Lucifer? You simpering wad of insecurity and self-loathing? No. You’re just a human, Dean. And not much one of them.
Don’t make people into heroes. Heroes don’t exist and if they did I wouldn’t be one of them.
can we talk about how dean is so messed up that he cant tell the difference between purgatory and a normal interrogation anymore
baby boy you’re not well at all
'The path to heaven runs through miles of clouded hell.'